


Break Me

by facade



Series: The Shards of Us [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medicinal Drug Use, Mental Health Issues, Originally Completed: 2013-09-10, Originally Posted: 2013-08-09, Overdose, Psychological Trauma, Reposted Work, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Notes, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 01:45:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 30
Words: 74,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1839811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facade/pseuds/facade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You broke more than a heart, you shattered a soul<br/>to build yourself up, to make yourself whole</p><p>You left me in pieces, leaving only a shell<br/>of who I once was; our memories became my hell.</p><p>You never looked back, no, not until it was too late<br/>I died with us, you've moved on, and this, this is my fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ...all he ever said

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tenshi_who](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenshi_who/gifts).



> *This fiction is undergoing a mass edit*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I know you do.” Fernando responded, forcing a smile that was anything but cheerful. That was all he ever said in the three years that they had been ‘together’ but not._

The television had been left on throughout the duration of the evening, the imagery of a few replays of the football matches of the week prior left to flicker on the screen, the light of them left to dance on the mint colored walls of the otherwise empty living room. A few papers gently slid off of the room's coffee table to the floor as the French doors had been carelessly left open, the breeze pushing the light curtains into the house ever so softly, whispering of rain to come. Sounds of the neighborhood arousing began to fill the house as a neighbor made his way to work, kids could be seen skipping to the bus stop as a woman jogged by being led by some “rat-dog” on a leash. The clouds hung low, stretching as far as the eye could see, threatening to explode and drench the multiple London cities below. ((Why would anyone choose to live here)) he wondered as his eyes drifted up towards the bleak sky. Of course, if he was being honest with himself, if the sky had been any other colour he would have been surprised. 

He shook away the thought, regained his focus, and heavily exhaled into the cool air one last time before he turned to face the television once more. Sergio had spent the past hour simply standing there, in the doorway between the living room and the patio keeping one eye on his game (their game) from a few days ago, and the other pointed towards the sky as if the Lord, Himself, would descend any moment from then to inform him that it was all a bad joke. They had lost to Brazil by three goals to none in that Confederations Cup game and ~~he~~ they had taken it pretty hard. Even now, it seemed to be a gross injustice. 

He had winced as he had watched himself pick up a yellow card, mentally scolded himself as his past self smiled in disbelief at the ref. ((Yeah, that was definitely a dangerous tackle)). He shook his head this time, disproved of "Past Sergio" as he watched his former self try to argue his point one last time before finally clearing the area, grateful that these refs put up with him. He had even felt a resurgence of anger moments later as he had watched Pique receive /that/ red card for /that/ tackle -- soft challenge really -- made worse by what he still claimed to be an embellishment, simulation. ((There had been barely any contact but that diving fucker...)) He bit his lip until it bled, gripped his fingers in a fist until he compromised his circulation. ((It's one thing if someone were to chop Cristiano in half -- bring out the yellow for simulation eighty percent of the time or no call as blood oozes from over his shin guards -- but Neymar, this punk kid topples over because of a little wind gust and it’s a straight red)). Total bullshit... 

...too much bullshit as, before he could allow himself to get too worked up, Sergio walked into the living room and shut off the television. This was his last morning with Fernando, his flight back to Spain departed in a couple of hours, and he wasn’t going to be getting angry over some bullshit -- ((maybe Pique //was// the last defender)) -- call that now only lives in the past. It was too much and yet never enough, forever his fate it would seem. 

Eventually, Sergio found himself purposelessly making his way to the kitchen bar, trying to think of anything he could do to make the time pass as he rested his elbows on the counter. He knew Fernando liked to sleep in after putting in a long night of –- well, Sergio was the one putting in, Fernando was the one putting out -- but he felt as if he should be doing something more, something like... (I’ll make him breakfast)), Sergio decided as he glanced at the refrigerator over his shoulder, smiling in pride as the thought crossed his mind and found him. He was more attentive and kind than he was given credit for, especially when it came to Fernando. Sure, he came across as hard and merciless but he had to be if he wanted to be and remain a top-class defender, if he wanted to continue to play and succeed with the likes of Real Madrid and the Spain NT; he needed to have a reputation that would keep forwards at bay, it was essential. When he was with Fernando though, he was so much more than a defender, more than Ramos. With Fernando he simply was, simply is. With Fernando, he was Sergio -- simply Sergio.

Sergio pulled out all of the supplies he deemed appropriate and spread them out across the counter: a pan with a few green onions, ripened tomatoes and the biggest white onion he'd ever seen, he had the olive oil out and the whole tray of eggs, a couple of bell peppers, the salt and pepper shakers, and of course, the potatoes. ((That should do it)). 

Nodding his head in approval of the ingredients, he began to heat half a cup of olive oil over the range. He peeled and sliced the potatoes but moments after, throwing them into the oil as he finished, sprinkling them with a dash of salt just before turning them over to finish cooking, thinking of how proud his mother would be all the while. ((Now for these fucking onions)) already feeling his eyes starting to burn and dry out at the mere thought of chopping and peeling onions. A few moments later, when he was sure the potatoes were finished, he tossed the onions in to brown alongside them as the tears continued to gently fall down his face; he hated peeling onions but he would do anything for Fernando. He poured in the beaten eggs as the onions began to brown, adjusting the heat as his mother had shown him countless time. He placed the plate over the pan, flipped and slid the omelet back into the pan to finish cooking, his mother’s voice guiding him in his head as he did so.

“What are you doing?”

Sergio jumped as the sleepy sound of Fernando's voice derailed his train of thought, a train that had surely bursted to flames: chopped tomatoes, green onions and all, as Sergio was met with the site of the waking Fernando. He had carelessly thrown on a pair of boxer shorts and had not yet washed his face; he seemed to be at war with consciousness and a dreamy state, his short brown hair had even seemed to have taken on a mind of its own. That was when Sergio believed Fernando to be most beautiful, though, the most pure. 

“Oh, did I wake you?” Sergio asked cautiously as he forced himself to look away from the other man. He knew how hyper-focused he could get when he was cooking, knew that he could get a little careless tossing around the pots and pans; it was something that he had gotten from his father. The focus, that is. He had acquired his knack for cooking over time by way of his mother.

“No, some punk kid on a skateboard did. Apparently, some kid stole his girlfriend and he wanted the whole world to know about it. It’s okay, though, he still has hope I think.” Fernando worked up enough energy for a lazy grin, energy he should’ve probably conserved as struggled to maintain his balance. He grabbed at the edge of the bar top for support and quietly laughed at himself. 

“Oh yeah?” Sergio responded in shared amusement as he guided Fernando to one of his bar stools, pushing down on the older man's shoulders, forcing the number nine to sit for a little while.

“Yeah, his voice cracked as he screamed ‘Lisa is a whore’ so I think he’s still young enough to find someone else." Fernando chuckled as his cheeks flushed to a light pink. "Back to my question, though. What are you doing?” He pointed from the pan to Sergio and back to the pan again, widening his eyes as he found a bright smile encompassing over half of the Sevillan's face. 

“Doing? You mean, ‘what have I done?’ I made you breakfast in a pathetic and desperate attempt to make you miss home: Tortilla Española," Sergio sighed out dramatically as the grin faded to a small, shy smile. "Now go wash up," Sergio instructed as he tugged at the elbow of the older man just before he headed back to the range where Fernando's food was nearing completion. 

"But I just sat down," Fernando groaned, though he did as he was told and trotted off towards the bathroom. Shortly after, he came back with water still dripping from the highs of his cheekbones and his hair had been made half damp. He had thrown on a white t-shirt to accompany his boxers and it, too, had become a victim of Fernando’s washing. “If I die from this food, Sergio...” Fernando playfully warned as he sat down at the bar, “I will haunt the shit out of you."

“Oh, just shut up and eat.” Sergio chuckled as he placed the omelet down gently in front of Fernando and went to grab a cup from the cupboard. He pulled the orange juice out of the fridge, filled the cup to the half-way line, and returned the juice to its original place. He set the cup down just to the left of Fernando when his arm was pulled into the grasp of the freckled Spaniard.

“You fucking asshole,” Fernando whispered as he playfully glared up from the table. He kissed up Sergio’s arm and Sergio gave in to the urge to bend down and leave light kisses on the other’s face. Fernando scrunched his nose as soft lips grazed his freckled nose and shoveled another fork full of the Spanish tapa into his mouth just as the defender pulled away. “Did you steal my mother’s recipe to try to get me crawling back to Spain?”

“Trying to get you crawling back to Spain, yes, but this is MY mother’s recipe, not yours." Sergio teased as if he were a four year old in the park who was trying to prove that his mommy was the best. "She taught me how to cook... no, she taught me the art of food. I usually don’t condone this as it's too starchy,” he knew Fernando understood and appreciated the importance of diet in their line of work, “but since it’s the off season, I figured what the hell?”

Fernando raised his eyebrows and placed another scoop of the tapa onto his tongue, his taste buds salivating at the contact. “Then why aren’t you eating?” he asked the defender through a mouthful of food.

As if on que, there was a honk outside and Sergio already knew of its origin. He didn’t need to turn, didn’t want to turn to see the taxi sitting out in the driveway waiting for a one Sergio Ramos. Either way, the sound of it's horn meant it was there which, in turn, meant it was time for good bye again.

Fernando had risen to his feet at the sight of the taxi and was now standing behind Sergio, arms wrapped around him taking in the scent of the younger man for one last time. He didn’t want Sergio to go but he knew he had to; he wanted to do a lot more of what they had done the night before. Olalla would be flying in later on that afternoon though, and Sergio couldn’t be here, in the home Fernando shared with his wife and kids. His line of thought came to a dead end as the thought of her, of Olalla, crossed his mind. He thought, for probably the thousandth time within three years, about what he had done, was doing to both herself and their children, and the consequences when they would surely find out. Too many times he had asked himself how he had allowed this happen and why he had let this go on for this long. He always came back with no answers. When had his conscious stopped working? When did sleeping with Olalla and sleeping with Sergio any time they were near and she was not become permissible to him? They had been doing this for years, this had become sort of a routine. Neither of the two knew how it had begun and neither had enough resolve to ever bring it to an end. It had become their not-so-little secret. 

“Are you okay?” Sergio wondered aloud as he studied Fernando's wrinkled forehead. He hated when Fernando zoned out in thought like that but noticed that it had become more frequent as of late. He knew he'd disapprove of the content of those thoughts so he never asked, he simply pulled him out of them. 

Fernando sighed in relief as the sound of Sergio's voice reached him, the pressure on his chest easing as the merengue reconnected him with the moment. Sergio had always seemed to be there to pull him out of his own head just before he found himself completely drowning in the fear and the guilt produced by his own actions. Sometimes though, Fernando wasn’t sure if it wasn’t Sergio who had been holding him under in the first place. Either way, he was about to leave for Spain, who would pull him out if he got wrapped up again? It wasn't as if he needed Sergio there but, then again, Sergio was the only one who knew what he was doing - who he was doing - behind Olalla’s back.

Sergio turned in the embrace until he was facing Fernando, trying to capture some insight into what may have provoked his sudden stillness but not too much. He found the eyes of the older man and lost himself in them. He could see Fernando trying to say something in response, trying to think of something to give him, but try is all he could allow Fernando to do as he was suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to find Fernando's lips with his own. It was a passionate exchange, not rushed and sloppy like everything that had occurred the night prior. It was slow, soft, and meaningful...

...at least it was for one of them. The taxi honked again, drawing groans from both of the Spanish men as they negligently separated.

“I love you, Nando.” Sergio whispered, looking deep into Fernando’s eyes. And he did love him. Does love him. Everything about him. Every freckle. He loves Fernando’s laugh, his smile, the one reserved for only those closest to him. He loved those cute freckles that were scattered along his cheek bones. He loved the way Fernando said his name, the way his mouth formed around each letter. He loved the way that he would crinkle his nose and purse his lips as he was processing new information. He loved them together; how Fernando made him feel and how he could make Fernando feel. Fernando made Sergio feel content and satisfied with who he was as a person yet still made him strive to be a better version of himself. He loves Fernando with all he has. Is in love with him. He is in love with all Fernando is and was and ever will be.

“I know you do.” Fernando responded, forcing a smile that was anything but cheerful. That was all he ever said in the three years that they had been ‘together’ but not.

Sergio did his best to mask his disappointment. At first, he had to fight back the urge to grab the older man’s shoulders and shake some sense into him. (I'm waiting, ready to fall and I just need to know that you will be there to catch me)... Eventually, though, he had swallowed his need to hear the words returned, assuring himself that one day Fernando would say them back. One day he would love him. You would think it would get easier over time but the reality of it is that it’s only gotten harder as his love for Fernando had grown stronger, more powerful. He thought at one point in time, and probably still does somewhere deep inside, that he could love enough for the both of them. Maybe he was on to something... Or maybe he was just on something.


	2. A Sober Man's Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sergio wasn’t one for having his feelings demeaned, regardless of who was doing it. “Well, you can’t be very much in love with her if you’re cheating on her with me.” Sergio snapped back, his thoughts on the past few months slipping out into dense bar room air. It came out harsh but he meant every word._

Sergio was lying on the bed of his hotel room in Miami, running a hand through his recently bleached hair as the music from his iPod coursed through him. He was anxious, nervous, just a cluster-fuck of all the emotions you shouldn’t be feeling before a game. Sure, it was just a ‘preseason warm-up’ but they’d be up against Chelsea, Fernando’s Chelsea, and after a trophy-less season, nothing was just a preseason warm-up. Sure, the headlines were all about Mourinho and Cristiano but his mind was on how he would deal with Fernando - how could he? It had been more than a month since he had last seen him and he wasn't even sure of how he would react to him... He’d probably just pass him the ball and give him a clear shot on goal so he could see his ass, those thighs flexed as the power surges out of him and into the ball. Maybe he’d just ravage the freckled Spaniard on the spot, on the pitch in front of 68,000 fans. Who knows? He sure as hell didn't.

Sergio glanced down as he felt the tingling start in his groin, chuckling to himself as he spotted involuntary motion, grateful that Iker was off doing whatever it was that Iker did. Two things he loves, one thought, one result. He didn’t often get the chance to play against his, whatever the fuck he was, and this was what happened when he did. It was one thing to be on the same national team, Sergio on one side of the pitch, Fernando doing his thing on the opposite - no distractions. Being tasked to shut him down though, that’s something else entirely. (Thank goodness we don’t play in the same league anymore), Sergio thought as he searched for something to be rid of his growing problem. His eyes landed on a copy of the Spanish newspaper Iker had sitting on his bed. Mourinho stood on the cover, arms crossed with the word “MOURBINHO” boldly written across his figure. (Yep. That did it). Sergio chuckled as he remembered the look on Cris’ face when he had told him that Mourinho was “behaving as a lover scorned. What did you do to him, Cris? Are you not returning his calls? Cheating on him?” Cristiano might be a little feminine, alright a lot feminine, but he could pack a devastating punch and Sergio felt lucky to be alive after that interaction.

“Hey,” Iker called out, acknowledging the blonde as he jogged into the room. He grabbed the back pack he had set out on his bed and immediately went to leave the room again. He froze when he realized that Sergio wasn't following him. “Are you not coming?” He questioned from over his shoulder as he reached for the door handle, a frown forming against his features as Sergio laid still on his own bed.

“Depends on where you’re going,” Sergio responded lazily, flipping through his iPod in search of another song as he grew tired of the artist he was currently listening to in one ear.

Iker released an agitated exhale and rolled his eyes as he turned to face his teammate. “This is why I’m against you guys bleaching your hair. You say stupid shit and you make stupid plays and, honestly...? I just don't have the time or the patience for your shit. Now get the fuck up," Iker ordered, enunciating each word carefully and pointedly, "and come on! We're going to be late!”

Sergio sighed and negligently pulled out his headphones, tossing his iPod beside him as he tiredly ran his hands over his face. “Where are you going?”

“Oh for fucks sake, Sergio! We’re going to miss the damned game at this rate!" Iker groaned in agitation, hands clenching into a fist as he grew anxious. "Now get the fuck up and take your blonde, flamenco loving ass to the bus! Now for fucks sake, Sergio!”

“Oh, fuck! It’s that time already?! Shit! Shit! Shit!” Sergio shouted as he sprung off the bed and hurriedly looked around the room for his things. Looking is a word that probably gave Sergio too much credit, though. He was simply turning in circles, pulling at his hair, his colourless hair while yelling the word ‘shit’. "Why didn't you tell me?"

“What do you think I'm doing? Fucking telling you! Are you fucking serious, Ramos? You lost track of the time? You have got to be fucking with me!” Iker was not amused but Sergio wasn’t necessarily playing and he was certainly not trying to entertain the other man. “You just need to grab your bathroom shit, Sergio! Go! Grab it!”

Sergio ran into the bathroom and used his arm to clothesline everything off of the counter and into his bag. He opened up the medical cabinet by the sink and threw everything from within it into the open mouth of the bag, as well. He even had a roll of toilet paper buried somewhere in there but he was too rushed to give anything within his bag a second thought. He turned sharply to see Iker in the doorway, fake crying into his palms, mumbling a question that sounded a hell of a lot like 'why me?'

“What? I’m ready! You can calm down now, mother.”

“Just get the fuck downstairs, Sergio!”

* * *

The game was intense but, thanks to Cristiano, Iker, and Fernando’s lack of presence in the first half, they came out on top defeating Chelsea by three goals to the Blue's one. No one was really emphatic about the win, scratch that, they made a fucking statement. Sure, it was just preseason but it’s not like they had just beat some half assed team like the Thailand National squad. No this was Chelsea, Mourinho's Chelsea, Fernando's Chelsea.

Friendly or not, Sergio knew Fernando would be beating himself up about not converting his chances in the second half. When he caught sight of Fernando slumped over the hotel bar, he knew he had been right. “Hey, Nando.”

“Sergio...?” Fernando’s speech was slurred; the beer in his hand was obviously not his first of the night. “Sergio! There you are, you fuck wad. Did you see what that bastard did? I was supposed to be in the starting XI but he pulled me. He fucking pulled me! And you! You kept taking the ball from me. Why, Sergio? Why would you do that? You know I like to score, you’re supposed to make sure I, we, keep possession, Sergio.”

“Nando, there was no we out there," Sergio sighed out as he leaned against the bar. "It was you for Chelsea and me for Madrid. We were both doing our jobs, I just happened to do mine better,” Sergio snickered leaning in to Fernando’s shoulder for a playful rub.

The bartender approached to ask if Sergio wanted anything to drink but Sergio waved him off, he was too exhausted to be drunk. He played the full ninety unlike his national teammate.

“You’re right, Sergio. I’m glad you get it now. There is no ‘we’. That’s a relief. I feel better knowing there aren’t going to be anymore awkward interchanges using that goddamned “L” word.”

Sergio frowned at the detour. He understood that Fernando didn’t want to tell him that he loved him back. He understood it – that Fernando didn’t recognize that he could love more than one person, that Fernando probably did love him but just couldn’t voice what he couldn't comprehend as it would be the very definition of ignorance – but he would never accept it. He would always remind him of how much he loved him in the hopes that one day the other would realize that he's always felt the same way too. To say that they don’t exist, though? ...Even in a drunken state? It was beyond Sergio’s comprehension and was not something he was willing to be denied. He loves them, so there has to be a them. You can’t love something that’s not there. “Of course there’s a “we”, Fernando.” Sergio’s voice was stern, even slightly harsh but hushed given their surroundings.

“No there’s not. There’s a you and a me – as in you fuck me – but there is no we. Fuck, that’s what we do Sergio. We fuck but just because you fuck someone it, it doesn’t make the two of you an item. I mean, be logical Sergio, I have a wife. I love her...”

“You can love me, too, Fernando." Sergio interrupted the other man, short on patience. "You just have to give me a chance, Nando. That’s all I’m asking. I love you way too much for you not to feel it too. And for you to just sit here and say that all that’s between US is fucking?” Sergio knew how desperate he sounded but he didn’t care. Fernando was the one person he would do anything for, would say anything for.

Fernando scoffed and glared back at the Sevillan. “Oh, Sergio. Sergio. Sergio, there are some things you just can’t control. I mean, I do love you. I love you. I love pie. I love football. But I’m in love with my wife.” Fernando was lecturing him as you would a child.

Sergio wasn’t one for having his feelings demeaned however, regardless of who was the one doing it. “Well, you can’t be very much in love with her if you’re cheating on her with me.” Sergio snapped back, his thoughts on the past few months slipping out into dense bar room air. It came out harsh but he meant every word of it.

Fernando looked horrified as the words floated around the room, ricocheting from one wall to the next. It was bad enough when the thought of his infidelity crossed his own mind but to have the words hit his ears for the first time from the mouth of the man he was cheating on her with? Fernando looked around, grateful the other patrons seemed to have vacated and he just snapped. “I sure as fuck am not in love with a person I love no more than pie. I could never fall in love with someone like you, Sergio. No one could ever be in love with you. You’ll never be more than a fuck, Sergio.” Fernando’s voice was low and bitter as he diverted his stare to the ceiling. “Tell me, when you and me are together, how often are we in clothes? I mean, you’re a great fuck but that’s about all that’s between you and me... Great fucking. I mean, how could I be in love someone who has no substance outside of the bedroom? How could anyone?”

Fernando looked back down to the man standing only feet away from him, one of the most powerful defensive forces the world of football has ever seen. When he finally caught a solid glimpse of Sergio’s face though, he only saw a shattered man that could have been anyone in the world. For the first time during the course of that evening, an emotion had started to course it’s way though his drunkenly numbed heart – regret.

Sergio was certain he had felt his heart explode and it wasn’t as quick as one would think an explosion to be. He could feel it in his throat, in his stomach, it was clogging his airways and he was certain that he would die of asphyxiation within any given moment. But no, no that couldn’t be the case could it? No, as that result would suggest that his god was one of mercy.

“Come on, SeSe,” Fernando said, trying to make up for his outburst by lightly swatting at Sergio’s shoulder. “You’ve always known that that’s what this was all about. That's all this was ever about. Come on, don't let this ruin your evening. Your team won, you played the whole match, and I could really use a good fuck right now. Don't let this sour your night, huh?”

Why he had followed Fernando back to the hotel room is something he’s still trying to figure out. Did he think that he could fuck some sense into him? Quite possibly. Why he had allowed himself to make the most passionate love of his life that night to a man who had just rejected him, regarding him as little more than “a good fuck” was something that was beyond him. He was no longer certain of what had hurt more: the sounds of Fernando's rejection or the morning after. Hearing that the target of your affections could never love you or waking up next to him knowing that you had given everything to him... only to be rewarded with a look of regret.

 

 


	3. Rooted in Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"...shit has a lot of benefits. I mean, it makes things grow. That's why a lot of sod farmers use it in fertilizers, right? I mean, plants grow from shit, so I guess people can grow from it, too. I mean, we all have shit somewhere in the roots of who we are. We would never get anywhere worth being without going through some shit first.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My concepts usually have canon timelines, however, I wrote this chapter without thinking. Let's assume they didn't return to California after the ICC Final and let's assume they never played Inter <3

The flight back to Spain was always a hard one but the events of the night before, that morning really, kept replaying within Sergio’s head making it nearly unbearable. Fernando’s bitter words kept resonating within him, driving away any possibility of sleep. When did he become nothing but “a fuck" in the eyes of the man that he loved? When did he become comparable to pie? When had he allowed that to happen? (He was drunk), Sergio tried convincing himself, as if that small factor just wiped the slate clean again. That was the only way he was still functioning within the moment, he just had to tell himself that if Fernando had been sober he would've never said any of those things and, as soon as he realizes what he said, he'd be calling. He'd be apologizing soon ... He needed a bit of reassurance though so he glanced around the plane, searching for an ear he could piss and moan into.

“Hey, Pepe,” Sergio lightly shouted across the aisle in the direction of the snoozing defender, not really wanting to wake him if he were actually dwelling within the realms of a deep sleep. He saw Cristiano stir by the window, watched as the arm of the winger moved as if he were about to shake his Portuguese compatriot back into a conscious state. (Pissed off, Pepe? Fuck no), “Cris! No! Stop it! Stop it, Cristiano. No! You don’t have to do that!" He quickly shouted as Cristiano made contact with the other defender, ensuring that the forward stopped before he aroused what would ~~probably~~ definitely be an angry defender. "Come here?”

“What?” Cris replied with a shouted whisper as he pulled out his second ear bud, turning his head to face the number four. He learned to only relaxed with one earbud in just in case he needed to respond to a buzzing phone or had to justify the amount of product he brought with him on trips like these. Such is the life.

“Come sit by me,” Sergio returned quietly, “I have to ask you something.” If he was honest (and he was quite notorious for his honesty), Sergio was relieved it was Cristiano who was awake and not Pepe; Cristiano had to deal with a lot of people in his life and, as he didn’t drink, he dealt with a lot of drunk ones. He would be the one to assure Sergio that it was nothing. Right? Well, hopefully.

“I thought you wanted to ask Pepe something?” Cristiano scrunched up his face and pointed down to the snoring number three, playfully forming a giant “U” with his hands as if he was going to choke Pepe like a rubber chicken; he scrunched his nose and gave himself rabbit teeth and the devil's eyebrows for added effect.

“Just get the fuck over here! Please?” Sergio shouted back with a full voice as he attempted not to laugh at the idiocy of the other man; he didn't want to encourage him. He saw a large portion of his teammates stir and even heard a few releasing groans of discontent. (My bad), he thought and he gently rubbed Isco's head, soothing and shushing the midfielder back to sleep.

Cristiano climbed over Pepe, doing some perverse dance on his lap as he made his way to the aisle, drawing a laugh from Sergio that brought about more groans and exasperated exhales. He gently brushed the faces of a few of their sleeping teammates and even stuck a wrapper from one of his protein bars into Fabio's open mouth as he made his way down the aisle, just before he plopped down into the empty seat just beside Sergio. He looked Sergio dead in the eye as he put his feet on the back of Isco’s seat and slouched down until his head was level with Sergio’s shoulders. "You summoned me?"

“You are a fucked up life form, you know that?” Sergio teased as he watched Cristiano scrunch up his nose in self-pride. “What are you doing awake anyway?”

“You love me this way, Sergio. Besides, I was just working on my twerk. It’s not going so well, I think I’ll just stick with my cultural presets for the time being.” Cristiano looked up at him, flashing a sweet grin as he fluttered his eyelashes. “And I didn’t get shit faced drunk like everyone else on this god forsaken plane. I’m actually surprised you’re not trying to sleep away a hangover right now. I guess there's no rest for the wicked...” Cristiano teased as he studied the defender a bit, looking for a bit of drunkenness but finding something else in its place, something that made his spine tingle in the worst of ways and... Never one to pry, he pressed his question once again. "So, what's going on?"

Sergio had winced at the usage of the word ‘love’ but regained his composure rather quickly; he loved Cristiano, he truly did, but another kind of love was plaguing him and cursing his thoughts to restlessness. “I guess I’m going through a hangover of sorts but it's definitely not the type you’re thinking of. It's just... Life is so much shit, Ronny.” He mumbled as he started picking at the imaginary dirt beneath his fingernails. "So much shit."

“Only my friends call me Ronny.” Cristiano joked as he watched the Sevillan tense up a little, pinching the other's side until he smiled a bit. “And yes, life is shit but shit has a lot of benefits. I mean, it makes things grow. That’s why a lot of sod farmers use it in fertilizers, right? I mean, plants grow from shit, so I guess people can grow from it, too. I mean, we all have shit somewhere in the roots of who we are. We would never get anywhere worth being without going through some shit first.” Cristiano offered as he watched a small smile form on the defenders face. "You just need a little paradigm shift, you know?"

“Well, that explains why you’re full of it, Ronny.” Sergio allowed himself to giggle a bit as he emphasized Cristiano's pet name from the land of England; he had been feeling miserable since the night before and it felt good to just laugh with Cristiano, even if it was over something that wasn't necessarily funny. If nothing else off of the pitch, Cristiano was good for making people laugh. For making him laugh.

Cristiano chuckled a bit and playfully pinched Sergio in the side again before he redirected their conversation. He was still curious as to what was bothering Sergio enough to deprive him from rest and relaxation. “What did you want to ask, amigo?”

Cristiano looked genuinely concerned leaving Sergio to question what emotion he was emitting to the forward. (Does he pity me? I hope not). Sergio rattled his brain as he looked down to meet Cris’ expectant eyes. How had he managed to forget what he had wanted to ask him already? What was it even about? While Cristiano was great at making him laugh, Cristiano was pretty good at making him forget things, too. (Was he going to ask him about shit? (No, we were just talking about shit. Oh, yeah…)) The proper question was who, who was it about. "I don’t really know how to phrase it. I just needed some perspective, I guess? So there’s a person…” Sergio was nervous, even though he knew Cristiano would never judge him for what he was about to say, and he was doing his best to mask it.

“There’s a lot of people out there, Sergio. Like more than seven billion people. Not just one.” Cristiano interrupted him, simplistically pointing out the general populous of people. "A fuck ton of people really. It's scary, just one out of seven billion though? That's nothing so you're going to have to be more specific than that."

Sergio looked down at Cristiano questioningly, as if the Portuguese knew where this was headed. Had Cristiano heard the interchange between himself and Fernando last night at the bar? Was he going to tell him to move on, that there were more fish in the sea? No, he already said that in a way. Sergio just kept looking down at Cristiano as if he knew exactly where Sergio was about to go with this conversation, eyebrows drawn together in a mixture of faint disbelief and partial admiration. The mischievous smirk on the other man's face didn’t really help either. Was Cris alluding to something or was he just reading way too far into this? Sergio settled for the latter because he felt more comfortable with that idea than he did with the former. “Well, this specific person told me that I didn’t have any substance and it affected more than I'd ever care to admit.”

Cristiano was intrigued to say the least. It didn't take much to unsettle Sergio, that was a given, but he didn't think that a subject of 'substance' would be something to pull the trigger. “So you’re worried because one person, a single individual if you will, out of seven billion said that you, Sergio Ramos Garcia, don’t have any substance?”

“When you put it that way, it does seem a bit petty but…”

Cristiano twisted his face before he interrupted the Spaniard, hand raised as if to say "stop" without him actually having to say it. “It’s not petty to you and that’s what truly matters. It was said to you, about you, and it has affected you. How could it possibly be petty? If you take away any one of the three then I would say, ‘Sergio, stop being a little bitch. That shit’s so petty, you're above all of that. Just don't sweat it’... That's not what I'm saying though, and you know I would tell you if you were being a little bitch about something.”

“Even if it was said about you, is affecting you, but wasn’t said to you?” Sergio had never heard one of Cristiano's theories before but he had heard about them from Fabio. Apparently, Cristiano was a man of complex, philosophical thought, who would have guessed? Certainly not himself. He had originally thought Fabio was referring to Cristiano's obvious philosophies of hair or of fashion; Sergio had always known that Cristiano was deeper than he had ever let on, he had just never realized exactly how complex of a man he truly was.

“Of course. You don’t know the context it was said in, Sergio. Sure, it may have been about you but unless you heard the conversation around it you don’t really know what was truly meant by it. Understand?" Cristiano's question rang as rhetorical as he continued without Sergio's verbal agreement, "Like, for example, somebody told me you were ‘a bad defender’. Does that affect you? I mean, it was said about you...”

“Who the fuck said that?!” Who the fuck wouldn’t that affect? Someone saying that you bad at your job? (Oh), Sergio thought as he remembered who he was talking to. Things like that didn’t seem to affect Cris anymore though because they were said so often about him and he had become some sort of superhuman when it came to criticism but Sergio... Sergio wasn’t like that. He was more reactive to the way others viewed him and that had always seemed to land him in hot water in the past.

Cristiano laughed at the reaction of his friend and tried to settle himself down quickly after. Sergio could be so hot tempered at times, so quick to anger, and it always seemed to get him into trouble. “Calm down, Sergio. It’s petty. No big deal. Trust me.”

“I trust you, Cris, but you're going to have to explain to me how the fuck that shit is petty. Some asshole thinks I'm a bad defender?” Sergio could feel a tightness spreading within his chest; this simply was not his week. "Was it Mourinho? If it was Mourinho then..."

Cris shook his head and pointedly ignored the question. “Well, it was definitely said about you and it has obviously affected you.” Cristiano stated simply though he still seemed a bit unmoved in his judgement about the allegation towards Sergio being a petty one.

“Well, no shit, Cris. So tell me, oh wise one, how the fuck is that petty?”

“It wasn’t said to you, so all you know is that somebody said that you were a bad defender. It was said to me, so I know that, before saying you were a bad defender, he said that you were always on him, no breathing room. After that he said you were always putting pressure on the ball, tackling him every time he got a little too comfortable. Confused? You shouldn’t be. He said you were a bad defender…to come up against. That you play with a knife between your teeth and your presence in itself is enough to stop him in his tracks. Understand? Of course you do because I explained it to you.” Cristiano haughtily laughed at himself. “So, this ‘you having no substance’, is it petty?”

Sergio stared at Cristiano, open mouthed, and slightly mind blown. When had Cristiano become a fountain of wisdom? First, shit is the secret to growth and now nearly every fucking thing is petty. Perhaps that was why he was able to smile so often despite the things that were often said about him? He slowly shook his head as Fernando's words didn’t fit the new found definition of the word 'petty'.

“…and you didn’t hit him in the fucking face? Break a cheek bone? Bust a fucking lip?" Cristiano asked in disbelief. "Why not?"

“He was drunk so I figured he didn’t really mean it. Besides, he means a lot to me." Sergio felt his breathing quicken and his palms sweating but the words were already in his throat and he felt them surging up, up, and out like word vomit. "In the ‘I’m in love with him’ realm of a lot.” Sergio cringed and hesitated for a moment just before he turned to meet Cristiano’s eyes. A look of disbelief or shock wouldn’t have surprised him, disgust would have been expected but certainly not ideal. After all, Cris just became the first person he came out to besides Fernando. He felt that he had to tell someone other than Fernando though, he needed insight from someone - anyone - or he felt was going to implode or self-destruct.

Cristiano looked like he was deep in thought though, as if he were looking for the right words and working to put them together to form the right phrases to say just the right thing. It was a pensive expression as opposed to the one of judgment he was preparing himself for. “You know that I’m an honest person and I know you may not want hear this from me but I’m going to say it either way. There’s a saying that "a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts". Regardless of what he may mean to you, you should mean something to him, as well. People don't usually say things of that nature to people they truly care for. You love him, that’s powerful within itself but does he love you?”

Sergio felt a knot forming in the back of his throat, he felt a tightening within his chest and a burning sensation in the back of his eyes. Deep inhale. Slow, exaggerated exhale. He didn't want to cry in front of Cris. “He said he loves me like he loves, like he loves pie and that he could never be in love with somebody, with somebody without any substance outside of the bedroom.” He knew that he probably sounded weak as hell to the other man but he trusted, he hoped that Cristiano wasn't judging him. He had never felt more vulnerable within his life.

Cristiano had visibly started taking in his own sharp inhales and releasing his own prolonged exhales. It was as if someone had just said that about him. Sergio smiled a little on the inside to see his friend sympathizing with him, maybe even empathizing with him. Fuck what other people said, Cristiano was a great person and an even greater friend.

“A person who loves you and cares for you would never say something like that, even when drunk.” Cristiano stopped and looked at him dead in the eyes, looking into him, beyond his exterior and at everything that made Sergio... Sergio. 

Sergio could still sense that the winger was still holding himself back from saying something... “What, Cris? You can say it. You know you can tell me anything.”

Cristiano flashed a strained smile and sharply inhaled through gritted teeth as Sergio had seen him do so many times in moments of restraint. He shook his head, as if telling himself "no" and settled for a simple “You should’ve punched that disrespectful cunt’s fucking lights out.”


	4. He, The Bull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A full arena of screaming people. One person standing alone amongst them all, separating themselves from everybody else within, standing solitary in the dirt possessing a gift that no one else in the arena had. A gift that the beast that was lying beyond the closed doors of the arena coveted – a red cape. It was just Sergio and Olalla in the arena now. His whole life Sergio had enjoyed watching the matadors but never once did he think he’d become the bull. Never once did he believe that the one thing he wanted, Fernando, would embody the cape in the sole possession of the blessed matador. He felt helpless, chasing something only for it to be whisked away before he had ever reached it._

Fernando sat at the bar in the kitchen, eyes closed as he held his breath and attempted to choke down the last few milliliters of his protein shake. He let out a relieved grunt we he found himself trying to swallow air, the last of the contents of the shaker making its way down his throat. (Repulsive fucking things)... but he knew that needed them if he wanted to maintain a diet that would support his career. It didn’t make them any less repulsive, though. He threw the shaker into the sink and was frantically searching the fridge, looking for something - anything - that would eliminate its bitter aftertaste, when Olalla quietly made her way into the room.

(I could think of more enjoyable protein sources) _,_ Fernando had thought to himself as his mind drifted to the Sevillan, hands tossing over carrots and broccoli as his memories tossed him back in between the sheets with Sergio. It had been a month since Chelsea had played Real Madrid in the United States, a month had passed since he had last seen Sergio. It wasn’t something that had bothered him much, they had gone months at a time without seeing one another, until recently. He had felt bad about the way their last exchange had gone, despite it ending the way their interactions usually did, but he simply didn’t have the gall to call and apologize to the younger man for the things he had said, the things he had done, the things he hadn't done... He could easily blame his careless words on the alcohol that had been flowing freely through his system at the time but, at the same time, he didn't feel as if anything he had said was necessarily a lie; he didn't feel as if his words needed to be withdrawn and labelled as a falsity as that, in itself, would be a falsity... In fact, everything he had said was a statement, simply a testament of how he had felt but some things, some things were meant to be left unsaid and that was what he was sorry for. It didn't seem to matter all that much anyway, Sergio didn’t seem to pay any mind to the things he had said: he had screwed him anyway, right? You don't screw people when you're mad...

“Are you just going to stand there with the refrigerator door open all day?” Came a flat voice from behind him, a soft sigh immediately following the words.

Fernando jumped at the sudden sounds, at the sudden intrusion her voice had on his thoughts. He acted in the same respect that a child would should his mother have walked in with his hand still jammed inside the cookie jar he was forbidden to touch; for a split second, he had even thought that she had overheard his internal conflict about Sergio. She seemed angry enough to make the thought plausible and that made Fernando flinch more than a little. He eventually worked up the nerve to turn and found her standing behind him: her brown hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, arms crossed against her chest, and a straight line setting itself on her lips. He watched as she pulled her bottom lip in between her teeth in - annoyance? - and saw the glint in her narrowed eyes. She looked as dangerous as ever; throw some ammo her way and a M-16 and the woman would have been ready for battle and, though Fernando couldn't be too sure, he had a feeling her demeanor had little to do with refrigerator door being kept open.

Fernando was slightly terrified, as terrified as any husband would be if he found himself in such a position, but he knew better than to let it show, knew that women had a way with sensing fear and would tear a man limb from limb if it was detected. "Olalla, can we not...? Can we not do whatever it is you're setting out to do right now?" Fernando asked cautiously as he blindly pulled an apple out of the refrigerator and allowed the door to finally fall to a close, eyes studying his wife further. "I don't think... I don't have time for this, this thing - whatever this is - I have to go to training." He tried as took a bite out of his apple and started making his way to the key rack. "Maybe," he started as he plucked his keys off of their respective hook, "...maybe, maybe we can talk about whatever this is about when I get back?"

Olalla scoffed and shook her head in disappointment at her husband's back, hands falling from her chest to rest on her hips. She glanced at one of the many clocks that littered the walls of their home and sighed. "You don't leave for training for another thirty minutes, Fer," she reprimanded her husband as she watched him turn, sure that her face had warned him that she was in no mood for his games. She could tell that he was nervous, knew that he had a reason to be fearful of the conversation they were about to engage in. 

Fernando started making his way back into the main rooms, mumbling that he had to pick somebody up but found his claims being disregarded. He heard his wife say his name one more time, heard a threat in the undertone of her voice and thought it best to get comfortable because he knew he would be going nowhere without having the conversation she needed to have. He dragged his legs over to their over-sized dining room table under the heavy gaze and scrutiny of his significant other. Olalla had always managed to make him feel like a child when she got into one of her moods; she would typically scold him about something [that was usually out of his control] and he would mutter out that he would do his best to comply with her new terms of the house, of their marriage, of child-rearing... That was something he had learned to do fairly early on in their marriage: just nod, agree, and promise to do better - and repeat.

Fernando succumbed to the pull of gravity and fell into one of the chairs with a defeated sigh. Olalla didn’t. (Bad sign number three). He found that she was still standing in the same spot in the kitchen, seeming to build herself up to say something. (Bad sign number four). Fernando was nervous (terrified) to find out what that something was... He flinched as she reached into her back pocket and pulled out a phone – his phone. (Bad sign numbers five, six, and seven.) A few moments passed and his nerves still as his thoughts fell silent for a moment. (What does she expect to find in there though?) It was a quick thought that momentarily painted a smug smile against his features. He wasn’t guilty of anything, well there was that one thing but he never texted Sergio about it and Sergio certainly never texted him... Their - whatever they were - was strictly confined to emails with locations and room numbers. Just emails. (Fuck), he thought as he remembered that his push e-mail notifications had been enabled... He furrowed his eyebrows as he watched his wife's fingers slide over the smooth surface of his cell's screen. He felt a wave of relief, a comfort as he rationed that she would have to be thorough in her search and, even then, he had put those messages in the trash every time.

“Who did you meet at 2300 at Blu Le Dokhan's?” Olalla was still looking at the phone, still scrolling through message after message, after message as she vocalized the question until she was certain she had memorized the context and connotations of the text - the text of the hundreds of e-mails she had found.

(Well fuck again). He had never thought to empty the trash of his email account and he was now certain that there were a plethora of those emails in there as they were the only ones he had ever been bothered enough to delete. “It’s, it's a restaurant.” (She has the e-mail right there, dipshit. Why the fuck are you trying to lie your way out of this one? There's no point in it, you've been caught. Just throw in the white flag. Surrender. Quit). Fernando tried to listen to the little, bad-mouthed, white angel on his shoulder but, by the time he had finally started listening for it, the little red one had already dived and gotten the white one ejected by way of a red card. His life was nothing but a game to those guys.

“Really...?" Olalla voiced feigning her amusement with her husband's excuse. "You were at a restaurant at 2300... in Paris? How dumb do you think I am Fernando?" She laughed out though there was nothing funny about the situation she had stumbled on, her emotions were actually on the opposite end of the spectrum as humor. "You don’t think I did my research? That I plugged this place into Google? Well, dear, I did and I know for a fact that it’s a fucking hotel - in Paris - and I know you were in fucking France for international duty!" She shook her head in disbelief as her emotions threatened to render her words and her intent as weaker than they actually were. "I knew the French were out there, Nando, but when did they start including condoms in their diet?”

“Where are the kids?” Fernando asked as he attempted to distract both Olalla and himself from the nature of the conversation they were having, the meaning behind it, and everything else about what Olalla had discovered. Forget it all for just a moment. (The kids? Good one, Nando. Be the better parent.)

“The children are taken care of," Olalla quickly interjected with a scoff, "and don’t you dare try to change the subject on me! I know what the hell is going on here, Nando." Her voice sounded as a warning, as a siren warning of worse things to come. "I'll be there in a few minutes, Fer," she started reading aloud, tears falling down her face as the words came off of the digital page, "I had to stop to pick up condoms. I grabbed the textured ones, the ones you seemed to really like, and I picked up some strawberry lube for the hell of it." She shook her head and wiped at the tears that had spilled down her face, "Is this...? You're cheating on me... with a man?" She couldn't believe it was a question that needed to be ask, to be cheated on was enough within itself, to have been cheated on with a man...? ...by a man she thought she knew so well? She now realized that she knew nothing of the man sitting dejectedly in front of her. "I'm no a moron, Fer. I'm not... I'm not... If you would have just came to me first, if you would have just spoken with me first we could have worked through this but instead you, you... You sneak off and start screwing someone else behind my back. Fer? I try to be understanding, I really and truly do, but..."

(Oh, well... It definitely looks like you're fucked now, Nando. Why don't you just tell her that you're protein deficient and that you preferred...) "I couldn't fucking tell you, Olalla." Fernando whispered out, voice light but raspy, heard by his wife but just barely. 

Olalla shook her head in disapproval and attempted to regain her composure. "...and why was that not an option, Nando, huh? I've been right here the whole time you were, you were... The whole time I've been here, raising our children and you couldn't be bothered enough to tell me, Fer? Why not?" She had herself worked up beyond the point of tears but they weren't the kind that could simply be hugged or kissed away. They came from somewhere deeper than that, indicated a hurt, a tear, a break that exceeded the detection of the human eye. 

He wanted to give her an answer, one that wasn't indicative of his selfish nature but he... (I could always tell her that it was Sergio's doing. Sergio is, he's single and it's not like anything of his would be ruined. He doesn't have children, a wife...) "It was," his conscious stopped him for a moment, only a moment, before it set his tongue loose, "it was Sergio's doing. He, uh, he didn't want you to know, he didn't want to be judged or treated any differently for who he was and I... I... He was going through a hard time, Olalla," Fernando pressed further as he found his wife's eyes, looking as deeply into them as he could in an attempt to convince their holder of his words. "He was going through a difficult time, he needed someone there, someone who... It had to be me, Olalla, and I... I felt pressured into it, into all of it. I didn't, I didn't feel as if I had a choice in the matter. After the first time, after the first time I had told him 'no' that I was under the impression that it was all supposed to be a one time thing... but he kept coming back - to me - making me feel guilty for saying no to him." He shook his head and looked away from her eyes ashamed with himself, not for 'finding himself pressured into' the situation with Sergio, but for lying about it. "Do you know how hard it is to do your job, to do it well when a member of your team is holding his state of mind over your head, Olalla? I do and it's, it's hell..."

Olalla took a minute before she responded and simply shook her head, though she didn't have the same energy behind her convictions that she had had only moments earlier. "You, uh, you sounded quite enthusiastic in your replies, Nando." Her voice was breaking, betraying her and her inward desperation to settle this, to resolve this and to press forward. She didn't like to argue, to bicker, and she knew that Fernando played on that knowledge from time to time but... "Nobody can force you into being bisexual, Fernando. While sexuality is not confided into some box, you either are or you aren't. No one wakes up one day and says 'hmm, I'm going to be a good friend and take it up the ass because he's such a good person'. That's not the way it works, Fer. It's not... It's not..." She lost herself to her emotions for a few more seconds and eventually shook her head, dismissing the rest of her thoughts for the time being. “Sergio's emotional state isn’t your responsibility, Fernando, and that you would risk mine for his...? That you would place his feelings before mine, Fer?” The tears were streaming down Olalla's cheeks in full now, seeming to pour out from a bottomless abyss held somewhere deep within her. "What about my emotional state, Fer? What about me? Who...? Who cares about me, Fer? If not you, then who?"

Fernando buried his face behind one of his hands and sighed into it. “I know that now, love. I do... Why do you think that those emails stopped, huh?" He nervously glanced towards the clock and inwardly released a sigh of relief. "I have to go to training now, Olalla. I'll be late if I leave any later but I refuse to leave unless I know that we’re going to be okay. Unless I know that we're going to be working through this. Are we... okay?”

Olalla carelessly shrugged her shoulders and wiped at a few of her straying tears as a weird feeling settled within her. "I guess we can talk more about... this when you get back," she sighed out as she held Fernando's phone tightly within her grasp. "This isn't over." (This is over.)

Fernando shook his head at himself as he made his way out into the garage and climbed into his car, (that was brutal). As he heard his car hum to a start, he considered calling Sergio to warn him of what had just gone down with Olalla but dismissed the thought as soon as it had come, remembering that Olalla still had his phone. He threw his car into reverse as the garage doors opened and quickly pulled out of the driveway, desperate to get as far away from this place and all of the new conflict it contained as fast as humanly possible. 

Olalla walked into their bedroom as she heard the garage doors opening, throwing the phone down on the satin sheets covering the mattress as sat down a mere foot away from it. She had just stared at it for what seemed to be hours before she found herself hesitantly reaching for it, sliding her fingers lightly over the unlock slider. She felt as if it had held all of the answers to the universe but she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know them all within the moment... She picked up the phone and aimlessly scrolled through the list of contacts, subconsciously stopping as she found the name Fernando had given her only moments before, and thoughtlessly hit the call button. “Hey, you’ve reached Sergio! You know what to do,” she heard cheerfully coming through her end of the phone.

*

A full arena of screaming people. One person standing alone amongst them all, separating themselves from everybody else within, standing solitary in the dirt possessing a gift that no one else in the arena had. A gift that the beast that was lying beyond the closed doors of the arena coveted – a red cape. It was just Sergio and Olalla in the arena now. His whole life Sergio had enjoyed watching the matadors but never once did he think he’d become the bull. Never once did he believe that the one thing he wanted, Fernando, would embody the cape in the sole possession of the blessed matador. He felt helpless, chasing something only for it to be whisked away before he had ever reached it.

He replayed the voice mail again, his anger boiling over, threatening to explode out from within his chest. His eyes darted the length of the walkway to ensure that he was as alone as he thought himself to be but he made his way out into the parking lot anyway. It seemed as if everyone had already left for the most part and that was something that he was fleetingly thankful for.

> “Sergio! It’s Olalla. I know what you’ve been doing with my husband, to my husband. You better not ever fucking talk to him again. You can’t just guilt trip someone into fucking you, you nasty fucking home wrecker. Who the fuck do you think you are? You think that fucking club would really support a queer athlete. Keep this shit up and we’ll find out!”

(Did that bitch just say that HE guilt tripped FERNANDO into fucking him?) Sergio was pacing maniacally on the walkway, trying to find something, anything, to take his frustration out on. “DID THAT BITCH REALLY JUST SAY THAT!? THE FUCK!” Sergio shouted at the top of his lungs to no one, anyone, and everyone. He looked around frantically for something to kick, a bush, a twig even, but the groundskeeper - the damned groundskeeper! - had performed on a level of perfection attainable by none before. Fernando had done a lot of fucked up shit to him before, had said a lot of fucked up shit to him, but this, this had crossed the fucking line. (No, fuck that, this just fucking…) he couldn’t even put a word on it, on his feelings, on this kind of betrayal. He felt as if he had lost all control in life; he had no control of the situation with Fernando, he was seemingly out of control on the pitch. He was helpless, powerless, and the one feeling that he hated even more than rejection, even more than unrequited love... was helplessness. He would be damned if he felt this way for long, if some prick unwilling to take responsibility for his own actions would make him feel this way. No one, no woman, no man would... He just needed to regain that sense of control. He needed control over something, over…

Sergio stopped in his wild pacing as he caught sight of the one other car in the parking lot besides his own: Cristiano’s black Lamborghini. (So reliable). He could always count on Crisitano to be the last to leave and today, today Cristiano was exactly what he needed. He felt helpless now but he knew that Cristiano had a way, could make him feel empowered in one swift movement and he craved that. He turned on his heels and walked up towards the grassy pitch of the Cuidad, standing at the edge of the small stadium to survey the turf for the six foot one inch life-form. He sighed as he found that the sprinklers had been turned on, watering what he found to be nothing more than an empty field. (Nope. No Cristiano here.) He eventually made his way inside, shooting a look around the gym to see if the forward had wandered into there, groaning as the gym was just as empty as the pitch had been. (Come out, come out where ever you are. I know you're here somewhere, Cris.) Sergio quickly checked his watch and clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth, rattling his brain for any idea of where the forward could have been. They had been released from training about an hour? ...an hour and a half ago? (Let's see. I talked to Mes for bit but then Pepe spilled some orange soda on his tee-shirt. I ran back into the locker room to grab him one of mine and then I found...) he glared down at his phone that was clutched tightly within the grasp of his right hand and headed back towards the changing rooms. 

He slowly pushed the door open and glanced around, searching for any sign of Cristiano within the area. He found the other man's gym bag opened on the bench, its contents emptied and set up in a meticulous display... Though it wasn't his intent when he initially set out to find Cristiano, he couldn't suppress the warmth that seemed to fill him as the sound of still running water reached his ears. He found himself possessed as Olalla had tipped him over his breaking point, found himself lost and desperate but Cris...? Yes, Cristiano had a way about him, could make him feel empowered with one swift movement.    


 


	5. Where Faith Dies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"He could hear the man grunting something about his tightness. Something about his 'pretty face'. Something about a 'good fuck'. Something about control. He could hear the man behind him and suddenly, suddenly he longed for the comfort of the sound of his own screams. At least those were still his. Fat tears rolled down his cheeks, mixing with the dried blood and sweat - for that was all he had left of his resistance - his tears."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter contains adult content including graphic depictions of violence and rape.**

He walked over to the showers, quietly leaning against the tiled wall as he drank in the sight of Cristiano lathering his body with a foaming soap, completely relaxed as the warm droplets hugged every crevice of his beautiful, well-trained body. The cameras never did him justice, as beautiful as he was in the photographs nothing compared to the gorgeous specimen within his line of sight at that very moment. He probably would have felt bad for Cris on any other day, for what he was about to do to him, but he was already beyond thinking rationally and he definitely wasn't thinking beyond himself and his sudden need for control. He may not have control over the situation with Fernando but he was definitely going to have control over this one.

Cristiano’s mind was somewhere else when he felt himself being shoved face first against the tiled walls of the locker room showers. Blood gushed out from his nose and bottom lip at the contact and for once in his life, he actually wasn’t thinking about the extent of the physical damage. Just the rough hand that was tightly gripping his neck and forcing him to the floor. His whole body withered as he collided with the white, tiled floor, his head bouncing directly off of it. The world started spinning rapidly and everything started to blur around him. Before he had time to even comprehend what was going on, more contact: a hard kick to the abdomen followed by another and another. More blood poured out of his mouth, mixing with the water that was still coating the shower floors, creating scattered light red pools of the mixture. He could barely move, his body had gone numb from both pain and shock, but mentally he was running away. He could barely speak but he tried to anyway, pushing through the pain but only working himself up to inaudible mummers. He could barely see, his vision was still fuzzy and neither the tears nor the confusion were really helping - he was certain he had suffered a concussion. He squinted his eyes and could vaguely make out the figure of a man unzipping his pants in front of him. Thinking was nearly impossible but Cristiano knew that this would be more than a simple ass kicking. He was naked, lying weakened on the floor, and this man was unzipping his pants.

“N-n-no. P -p-please don’t.” His weak voice barely breaking through as he watched the jeans of the blurred figure fall to the floor. He could taste his own blood coming from the wreckage on his face but that was the last thing on his mind. "I'll d-do any ..." He coughed and it felt as if his attacker had kicked him in his lungs hard enough for them to be dislodged at any moment. He groaned, rolling over from his side to his stomach, silently praying for this to be nothing more than a nightmare.

Cristiano exerted all of the energy he could muster up in an attempt to push himself back up to his feet, receiving yet another kick in the rib cage as a reward for his efforts. He received another kick, he supposed for good measure, in the thigh as he staggered back down to the floor. (Why, why is this happening? What did I do to deserve this?) “Wh-wh-why-“, Cristiano desperately stammered out, trying to force his breath to form the words his gut was too weak to. “Wh-wh-why are you…?” Despite the total lack of volume in his questioning, Cristiano was halted by a blow to the face; the blurred man quickly transforming into little more than a blob within a matter of seconds. Cristiano could feel his face already beginning to swell and he could feel what blood remained in his body rushing to all of the aching places scattered throughout his body yet none of it seemed to be flowing through his legs within the moment.

The blob grabbed at his hair before he had the chance to work up any more energy, and used it to drag him over to what he presumed to be the shower bench. The blob slammed him down onto the bench on his stomach, drawing yet another weak grunt from Cristiano, and he felt his arms being pulled underneath the wooden bench as the blob, he felt the blob slide in behind him. Cristiano could already feel the man’s erection pressing into the back of his thigh and he began to sob at the thought of what seemed to be the inevitable. Within that moment, Cristiano was only sure of two things: that this man was about to do the unspeakable and that there was no God, that there could be no God.

Cristiano screamed bloody murder as the man pressed himself inside of him with no lube, no condom, no stretching of any kind. The man was using Cristiano’s wrists as a sort of leverage to pull on, forcing his way deeper and deeper into him. Cristiano screamed until he was sure they could hear him in England, in the United States, until he was sure he would faint from a lack of oxygen. He screamed. Cristiano screamed until the world knew, until God knew how much he hated them, Him. Cristiano screamed until his voice broke, screamed until the world knew how much he was breaking. But still there was pain. Cristiano screamed until every other noise in the universe was drowned out to his cries and until any sound ceased to come from his mouth. And still there was pain. Cristiano screamed mutely until the world went fuzzy and white, until the world turned to nothing but black.

* * *

He awoke in a haze of pure pain and discomfort, with the simple hope that the nightmare was over. He was still slumped over the bench and the heavy pressure on his armpits was still there. And still there was pain. No, there was no God... there couldn't be.

Cristiano couldn't see anything; piece of him had hoped that it was an omen, that if he couldn't see it then it wasn't there, before he soon realized, soon felt that there was some sort of fabric covering his eyes now. He tried to cry out for help but still there was no sound and even then, he barely had the strength to try. He didn't even possess the strength to fight the man, to squirm, to offer up any form of resistance. Hell, he didn't posses the strength to even move his head from one side to the other. Even then, the pain continued.

He could hear the man grunting from behind him, mumbling something about his tightness. Something about his 'pretty face'. Something about a 'good fuck'. Something about control. He could hear the man behind him and suddenly, suddenly he longed for the comfort of the sound of his own screams. At least those were still his. Fat tears rolled down his cheeks, mixing with the dried blood and sweat - for that was all he had left of his resistance - his tears.

He felt the man release one of his arms and couldn't even bring himself to feel relieved. He was too weak, too drained to even think about moving it. Shortly after, the other was released. Cristiano prayed to that God he no longer believed in that, in spite of everything, He would give him strength to finally get away from this nightmare, this man, this monster. After a few moments of nothing, no strength no rush of adrenaline, he became fairly certain that if the bastard was up there, he was giving him the middle finger right now. Suddenly, he felt again...

Cristiano felt his hair being pulled on once again, this time he was being pulled back, but he was still being slammed into the bench from behind. He felt hot breath ghosting over his neck, a tongue licking his skin, cum filling him, an unrecognizable voice whispering little nothings into his ear as the hand of the monster ghosted over his groin. He wanted nothing more than to get away from this, this... but he couldn't. He could barely even think about trying. And the tears fell harder.

A few soft kisses were left on his neck betraying the brutal abuse his body had endured and suddenly, suddenly he was being lifted up by his hair again, this time being slammed back onto the floor. The cloth over his eyes fell off but when he opened his eyes he immediately regretted his hastiness. Everywhere he looked, he saw blood. His blood. On his body. On the floor. On the walls. He was too weak to move, so he just laid there, staring at the bloodstained shower walls and floors, consumed by his feelings of worthless, of filthiness, feeling so used and so angry, angry with himself more than anything for having been so weak...

Cristiano laid there until he had enough energy stored up to help him crawl back towards the showers. The moment he moved he immediately regretted the movement, pain seared through him and increased with every inch he dragged himself across the tiles. Eventually, he made it to one of the showers and reached up from the floor to turn the water on to a scolding hot temperature, cringing as he stretched his battered body. He scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. The blood fell clean and easily, dissolving itself within the water, but no matter how hard he scrubbed, he couldn’t get rid of the filth he felt, he saw every time his eyes fell on his own flesh. So he scrubbed. And scrubbed. And scrubbed.

Cristiano tried to force himself to his feet, pain coursing through his body like new... He collapsed to the floor only moments later, unable to cope with the sting that was being emitted throughout his entire body, grabbing at the towel he had placed on the hook before the invasion. Before he was berated to nothing. Before him. No, not him. The monster. Cristiano placed his head within the palms of his hands and unleashed the floodgates.

* * *

Iker groaned in agitation as he threw his car into park and rummaged through his things for one final time, sighing as he came up empty handed for at least the thirtieth time. He had gotten home and had showered before he had realized that his phone had gone missing. He threw a curious glance over at the black Lamborghini and made his way up to the security booth, keeping an eye on the car all the while. It was well known that Cristiano was the first to arrive and the last to leave but - he glanced down to wrist and checked the hands and looked back over to the sports car - but it was already past seven and they had been released over five hours ago. "Hey, Ivan," Iker called through the glass as he tapped his fingers against the window, "I forgot my cell here, I think, and I need to get in." He glanced back at the other car. "Is Cristiano still here? Do you know or...?"

Ivan shrugged as he opened the door to the booth and made his way up to the Cuidad. "He probably went off to lunch with somebody," the older man offered as he fumbled with the keys, "he'll probably be back to grab that baby soon." He finally found the key and unlocked the door, stepping aside to allow the keeper inside. "Arbie's still here though. He brought me an early dinner if you're looking for someone to talk to or...?"

"Oh no, that's fine, Ivan." Iker answered as he placed a grateful hand on the security guards shoulder. "...and you're probably right. He'll be back soon enough, I'm sure," he finished as he glanced back at the Lambo one last time. He assured the guard that he'd lock back up on his way out as he made his way deeper within the facility, whistling as he made his way to the locker rooms. He thoughtlessly shoved the door open and went straight for his locker, not thinking twice about the excessive, steamy moisture within the air as he located his phone within seconds. "There you are you cheeky little fucker," he sighed out as he halfheartedly read through some of his missed messages.

Iker was on his way out when he caught sight Cristiano's gym bag; it had been emptied and all of the contents were set out just so on one of the benches, a little tick of Cris’ that was always executed just before he hopped in the showers. Iker looked at the items that were set out and noticed that not one of them had been touched since they were removed from the gym bag. "Cris?" the keeper called out hesitantly as he finally noticed the thick fog hanging in the room, hearing only the sounds of his own voice bouncing off of the tiled walls. "Cris, are you there?" he yelled out out one more time just in case the striker had zoned out; it wasn't an unusual occurrence for Cristiano to doze off within the showers after putting in a hard day at training. Iker sighed as he decided to check the corner, just in case, and froze...

Cristiano was sitting in the corner of the showers, clutching his knees to his chest, clad only in a blood soaked towel of cotton that had been carelessly wrapped around his waist. While he wasn't necessarily zoned out in the way Iker had anticipated, his facial expression was blank and he seemed to be in a trance or in some state of shock, his mind wasn't there either way. He had bruises littered all over his body and there was more of the blood that had been stained on the towel spread over the white of the tiles and the wood of the benches. 

Horrifying would have been a word though Iker felt it to be an understatement for what he was experiencing. It had looked like somebody had picked up Cristiano's body, had flung it around the room and had slapped it against the tile to paint the room red with his blood, had used his body to create the blood spatter work that now surrounded him. "Cris...?" Iker whispered hesitantly as he cautiously approached the crumbled body. He wasn't sure of what had happened within these walls over the past five hours but whatever it had been, whatever had happened to Cristiano... He placed a gentle hand on Cristiano's trembling shoulder as he received no response and whispered his name again, gently shaking the number seven's shoulder as he tried to bring him back from where ever he had gone off to. He caught his breath as Cristiano slowly turned to meet his gaze, concern deepening as the swollen features of the winger's face came within his view, and shook his head into the still blank eyes of the Portuguese man. "Cris? Cris, what happened here?" Another minute passed with no response and Iker felt his concern turning into anger. "Fuck it! Fuck it, I can't just sit here while you... I'm going to call for help and you, you're going to be okay, Cris. You're going to..." Iker pulled his phone out of his pocket and anxiously dialed in the number for the police department and waited impatiently as the line started to ring. As an operators voice tunneled through the other end, he saw swift movement out of the corner of his eye as Cristiano moved to snatch the phone out of his hands, eyes going wide as he watched the attacker throw it against the wall, shattering it to bits. Iker didn’t have any fucks to give about his phone as they were all being used on Cristiano at the moment but Cristiano... "What the hell, Cristiano? I'm trying to help you! Let me help you!"

“Iker, p-please.” Cristiano stuttered out as his face finally broke with emotion, rivers of tears pouring out from within his eyes as his lips trembled and tripped over words. He fell forward and pressed his face against Iker’s chest as he whispered muffled pleas into the fabric of the other man's shirt. “Please don’t. Please, Iker. Please. Don't do this, Iker. Don't do this.”

"Cris," Iker sighed out as he threaded his fingers through the younger man's hair, "did you, did you do this to yourself?" He gave the room another once over and shuddered as the colors fell within his vision; he couldn't remember the last time he had seen so much blood, maybe the water made it look like more than there really was, but still... "What the fuck happened in here, Cristiano? Did you, did you do all of this?"

Cristiano shook his head slowly, not even attempting to lift it from Iker's body as he answered the question of the keeper. He didn't have the strength. He didn't have the willpower. He had... He had nothing. 

Iker pulled Cristiano into a warm embrace and negligently assured the other that he would keep this, this mess between the two of them if that's what Cristiano had truly wanted. He could feel Cristiano’s muscles going through spasms within his grasp, probably from the pain he must have been experiencing, and took in a shaky breath of air as he felt the winger's whole body convulse at times. He held him there for at least two hours, sobbing with him, Iker's tears falling more out of fear than anything else. He didn’t know what had gone on within the walls of this shower room, he just held on to the most obvious of observations: ‘it could not have been good’.

Iker watched as Cristiano eventually rose to his feet, cringing in more and more pain with every foot he gained in elevation, and shook his head in mixed disbelief and disgust towards whatever possessed life form was responsible for the ridiculous bruising all over Cristiano's body. He could have sworn that his heart had stopped as he received his first full view of the damage, excluding what was concealed by the more red than white towel. There were deep, dark bruises on the winger's knee caps and armpits, bruises on his cheekbones and cuts everywhere from his shins to his forearms. He observed two lines of bruising going across his chest, one seeming to extend from one bruised armpit to the other, and the other running across his abdomen; they seemed to be running parallel to one another as if... Iker shot his eyes toward to bloodied shower bench then back at Cristiano.

(What the fuck happened in here?) He began to seriously doubt his decision to keep this between himself and Cristiano; something very bad had happened in here, someone very bad had happened in here ...but who? Iker looked back at Cristiano, who was more focused on trying to breathe than anything, and his mind snapped back to the open doors at the front of the building. He jogged over to Cris’ gym bag and pulled out some boxer-briefs, a pair of shorts, and a tee shirt. Cris had seemed to have been humiliated enough for one day and he'd be damned if some paparazzi snuck in and snapped a picture of Cristiano like this. He was sure Cristiano had never intended to wear this particular combination out in public and, as he looked at the other outfit combination within the bag it became a fact... Regardless of Cristiano's usual style, the first set of clothes he had pulled out seemed to be the more appropriate choice given Cristiano's current state. Iker hurried back with them and handed them over to Cristiano, wincing as Cristiano released a scream in pain as he attempted to climb into his own underwear. 

“Here, Cris. Let me...” Iker offered as he took the fabric back from Cristiano. He helped Cristiano dress himself, gasping as he caught sight of the extent of the bruising on Cristiano’s thighs. Iker shook his head sympathetically as he gently traced a thumb over a few of the bruises; he'd seen Cristiano come out of derby's and Clasico's in better condition than this. He watched as Cristiano pulled his shirt over his head and listened as the younger man huffed and puffed as if he had just ran a marathon. He eyed his teammate with even more intent before he went to grab onto him in support; he did seem extremely exhausted, fatigued even, and Cristiano looked as if he could collapse at any given moment. That mixed with the blood scattered everywhere and anywhere left Iker with an overwhelming sense of confusion. (Had Cristiano gotten into a fight? No. He couldn't have. He looked confused and scared. If it had been a fight he would've been angry. Besides, Cristiano's all bark and no bite).

Iker guided Cristiano over to the dressing room, helping him sit down while he cleaned up the mess. He did so quickly and quietly, locating the bleach in the janitorial closet just down the hall. He poured over two gallons of bleach onto those tile floors and walls, nearly suffocated himself to death with poison vapor but he did it... He did it for Cris. He didn’t want any remnants of that night to remain, didn't want Cristiano to see himself painted on these walls. By the time they left, he felt as if he would need a lung transplant with the amount of bleach he had inhaled. Iker remembered to lock the doors behind him as he walked out towards the parking lot with Cristiano at his side, grateful that Arbeloa had, unintentionally, distracted the lingering paparizzi's as he ate dinner with his cousin at the security booth. 

Cristiano turned and started to walk towards his car before he heard himself being admonished by Iker. “Not tonight, Cristiano. I want you to stay the night at my place that way I can help take care of you. You can barely walk as it is and you look, you look like you’ve walked into hell and came back. And you keep having these muscle spasms and I already feel bad enough for not having notified the authorities. You’re coming with me, at the very least, so I can make sure you’re okay. If something happened to you... I just. Get in the car, Cris. My car.” Cristiano didn’t put up a fight, he clearly didn’t seem to have the energy to, so Iker helped Cristiano slide into his passenger seat before closing the door and heading to his place behind the steering wheel.

The drive was quick and Cristiano had zoned out again, leaving behind that same eerie, blank expression Iker had encountered in the locker room. Iker watched him for a few moments before stepping out of the car to retrieve him. It hurt to see somebody like Cris like that, a man so powerful suddenly rendered so weak, a man so strong brought to little more than tears and tremors. 

Iker gave Cristiano the master bedroom for the night, despite Cristiano’s protests, and had set up fort on the couch. Sleep wasn’t going to come for Iker that night as his memories traced the shower room and, judging by the sobs and whimpers coming from the bedroom, it wasn’t coming for Cristiano either. It is a misfortune that one cannot bleach out all of the unwanted thoughts and memories, couldn't remove the scars of the brain. How was Cris ever going to be able to set foot in the showers again? Hell, how was he supposed to knowing that something had happened in there, something that had resulted in pools of Cristiano's blood on the tiles? Iker stood up and walked over to the freezer and pulled out a quart of Rocky Road ice cream, sighing “fuck it” as he did so. He grabbed two spoons and walked to the master bedroom where he found Cristiano sitting up in the bed, legs drawn to his chest again, head tilted back, and tears sliding down his cheeks. Iker turned on the television, not really caring what was on, and sat the ice cream down on the night stand. He wrapped his arms around Cristiano, legs and all, and began to whisper words of comfort in the younger man’s ears. Cristiano eventually dropped his knees and settled into the keeper's chest.

They sat there in silence, picking at ice cream until Iker’s phone alarm went off for their next training session.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Rape is a serious crime that should be reported. To report, get involved, or for more information:
> 
> http://www.rainn.org/


	6. Seeing Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tiredness, he could do. Blood stained memories? Not a fucking chance._

Iker left Cristiano at his house while he attended the days training session against his better judgment; he didn't like the idea of leaving the man to himself after having undergone something so traumatic but Cristiano refused to allow his problems to be a "disruption" on the keepers life. He could sense a piece of Cristiano's fractured pride in the demands so he had agreed to them as long as Cristiano had agreed to stay there, at his house, until he returned. Iker had wanted to stay for his own reasons though, had wanted to stay in bed with Cristiano until the other felt comfortable enough to tell him of the evil that had happened the night before as his knowledge on the matter was quite limited... The not knowing was what was haunting him, was at the source of the knots in his stomach every time; sleep deprivation and tiredness he could do. Blood stained memories with ominous origins? Not a fucking chance. 

He felt waves of guilt crashing over him as he closed the door behind him; he had watched as Cristiano pushed the curtains aside, watching him go and he knew how much Cristiano must have been hurting to have opted out of training, how severe the incidents from the night before had truly been to keep him away from the one constant in his life. Iker pointed to the lock of the door and held out a hand beside his ear and held that stance until he heard the three clicks of the locks and the six beeps of the now armed security system. Cristiano had developed something close to paranoia at around three in the morning and had started to flinch at every noise that befell the still house. At one point, Cristiano had even stared at him for an hour as if he was trying to figure something out about him, as if he couldn't be trusted. Eventually, Cristiano turned his attention back to the ice cream and onto, what Iker could only figure to be, self-loathing.

(Poor guy), Iker thought as he distractedly started walking away from his home. (Whatever had happened to him last night is going to be wearing on him for a while). Hell, it was going to be affecting him for a while and he had only stumbled upon the aftermath of it all. He shuddered as he climbed into the back of the waiting taxi cab and gave the driver the directions to the Ciudad. He had taken a cab from his house so he could retrieve Cristiano’s Lamborghini which had remained in the parking lot overnight. Iker had been more concerned about the car than Cristiano had been; Cristiano had even gone so far as to mutter something about "scrapping the damn thing". That, in itself, added to the severity of the situation of the night before within Iker's mind; Cristiano loved his cars. He pulled himself out from his thoughts as he noticed the driver pulling up to the Cuidad, eyeing the Lambo as he climbed out of the car and slowly made his way to locker rooms. It seemed easy enough until he found himself in front of the doors leading into the room, arm outstretched and thoughts frozen in place. He felt his throat close and his face suddenly felt clammy, flushed as he envisioned walls painted red with blood spatter and floors covered in pools of watered down blood. His hands trembled and he felt himself backing away from the door, bumping into Özil as he did so. "S-s-sorry, Mesut."

“Whoa, my friend," Mesut chuckled out as he caught the keeper, hands wrapping securely around the biceps of the older man. "Everything okay? You’re not looking too good. You look pale. Well you always look pale, you just…”

“Yeah, Mesut. I’m alright," Iker lied, flashing his best fake smile as the German's grin lit up his own face, "but can you do me a favor? It might sound a little crazy but do you think you can, can you go in there and grab my training kit for me? I know it’s…”

“Of course. No need to explain," Mesut replied simply, looking at Iker as if he had just asked him to do something basic and typical. "I’ll be right back.” The German opened the door to the locker room and quickly disappeared into the locker room, shouting greetings to the teammates he saw.

Iker could hear the light hearted banter, the overall jovial nature flooding out from within the room... He wouldn’t be fooled by it at all, though. He knew the very walls of that locker room had borne witness to a great atrocity and that its floors had held the subsequential blood. He knew there was a secret in there, confined and kept by those walls... He just wasn't sure of what it was. Iker stopped as he thought about his teammates in there, each with a personality unlike anyone he had ever met before, each one an individual, a pillar of strength in a way that exceeded all things physical. He found it terrible that it took seeing Cristiano’s spark die in those showers, in that locker room, to make him fully appreciate his other teammates... As he was still unsure what put that fire out within Cris, he would continue to blame the locker room and inwardly feared for everyone of the men within it.

Mesut popped out of the locker room almost as quickly as he had gone in, Iker’s full kit in tow with that same smile plastered on his face. “Here you go, my friend!”

“Mesut, I love you, you know that?” Iker whispered as he pulled himself out of his thoughts, grateful the German had walked out unscathed. Maybe he was the one being paranoid but he was definitely a bit scarred from it all. Definitely more appreciative of those around him and certainly more protective. 

“Aw, danke Iker!” came the response as Iker pulled the Turkish German in for a tight hug, fighting back his own tears. “If you ever need to talk to me about anything, if you ever need anything, I’m here for you. I'm more than a captain and I just need you to know and understand that.”

“Actually, not for me but…" Mesut started as he furrowed his brows in thought. He glanced over his shoulder and realized that Iker still hadn't changed when he looked back at the keeper. "Well, after you get dressed,” Mesut finished as he pointed down to the kit, reminding Iker he still had to put it on. He watched in confusion as Iker ran into the janitorial closet down the hallway and ran back out with his kit somewhat on while muttering a “don’t ask Mesut because I'm sure you don't want to know." Mesut simply widened his eyes and softened his smile. “Your shirt is inside out, my friend.”

“Fuck me!” Iker pulled off his shirt and adjusted it, pulling it back over his head with the print and tags in their proper places. “Better?” He smiled as Mesut nodded and they started walking out towards the pitch, taking a detour towards the offices of the coaching staff to inform them that Cristiano had ‘fallen ill last night’ and was at Iker’s so they needn’t worry about sending anyone to check up on him. “So, what’s troubling you, Mesut.”

“I’m just a little worried about, Sergio," Mesut sighed out, worry taking hold of his usually jovial features. "He had been acting really strange for these past few weeks and I’m sure, I'm sure you’ve noticed. It's just that he's been really down and sad but now, now, all of a sudden, he’s a little…”

“MES! You! Me! Lunch? There’s this new Thai place I want to try.” Sergio's voice bounced off of the walls and echoed down the corridors. "Let's do this!"

“I’m up for it!” Mesut shouted just before he turned back to Iker. As soon as he was certain that Sergio had disappeared out onto the pitch he continued. “See? Out of nowhere.”

“Yeah,” Iker nodded, “I can see why you’d be concerned. I’ll definitely talk to him. Don't you worry about that.” Iker affectionately tapped Özil’s shoulder with his gloves and headed off to join the other goalies as the German headed off with his assigned group.

* * *

Iker started to head off of the pitch, threading his fingers anxiously through his own hair; he was mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted and he was ready to bury himself. He had had a shit time during the day's training session and he anticipated many more days like this in his future if he couldn't get his head right any time soon. He had no sleep the night before because who could after a night like that? He couldn’t focus on shit as his mind would get stuck on why Cristiano wasn’t there launching balls in his direction, and he couldn’t bring himself to give a shit about the training because real life had come to knock him off of his pedestal of idealism ...it was a first and, as much as he wanted it to be a last, he knew that Cristiano wouldn't be there the following day or the one after but that locker room, that damned locker room would be. He had cringed at the sight of all things red that day and had found himself spinning in a red room anytime his mind created a vacancy, anytime he wasn't hyper-focused on something and sometimes even then. He was about to drown in more bloodstained memories when he remembered Mesut's words prior to the day's training, his paternal instinct kicking in as he caught sight of the Sevillan just ahead of him. “Hey, Sergio! Wait up!”

The brunette stopped as the sound of Iker's voice and patiently waited for the keeper to catch up with him. “What’s up, man?” he asked as Iker came within earshot.

“I just wanted to check on you, see if you’re doing alright. The team’s pretty worried about you. Over the past month you’ve been just, depressing as fuck. It was probably that blonde hair. I'm glad you got rid of it," he laughed though there were no traces of joy within the sounds of it. "I know you said that…”

“It’s Fernando,” Sergio interrupted, biting his lip as he scratched at the back of his head in frustration. He made his way over to the benches without another word and fell onto one, resting his elbows on his knees as he mindlessly picked at his nails and fumbled with his thoughts. He had realized a little too late that there was an international break coming up within the next week; he hadn't spoken with Fernando yet and he knew that he had to make Iker aware of all that had transpired over the past couple of days as it would possibly have an impact on the dynamic of the national team, or the dynamic between himself and Fernando at the very least. 

Iker cautiously approached the bench and sat beside Sergio, a little hesitant as he did so. Sergio rarely ever spoke of his issues with their teammates, he usually resolved them himself as that was what Sergio did, as that was what made Sergio such an excellent leader. Iker mimicked Sergio's actions, resting his elbows on his knees but entwining his fingers with one another as he released a deep sigh and thought. Fernando. As in Fernando Torres?" They had had a game against Chelsea but that was about a month ago and, while Iker knew that Sergio and Fernando were friends, he couldn't understand what could have happened during that game that would have caused a conflict within the two. Sure, Chlesea lost but Fernando wasn't really a sore loser. (He couldn't be if he played for Chelsea), Iker thought snidely before refocusing on his friend's distress. "What's the problem?"

"Where do I begin?" Sergio question nervously as he suddenly became extremely interested in the fabric of their training kits. He could hear Iker casually asking him where the problem began and he couldn't help but chuckle because, when he truly thought about it... "I don't know. Close to three years ago?" He could see the confusion on Iker's face and laughed when the other said something along the lines of "well shit, you two hide your problems very well". It was more of a nervous chuckle really. "It's extremely complicated," he sighed out, looking at Iker as if he was looking for an answer though he knew the elder Spaniard was clueless as to where this conversation was going. "He was, uhm, he was going through some pretty heavy shit with Olalla. I can't even remember what they were getting on about but it was pretty bad." He rubbed his hand against the back of his neck and drew in a large breath of the clean air to calm his nerves a bit. "Regardless of what started it, it eventually became too much for him and he turned to me, you know? For comfort. For guidance. For an opinion. So I gave it to him. Everything that he wanted. It snowballed from there. He started wanted things like support - done, comfort - done, friendship - done, but then he wanted more... He wanted a kiss and I couldn't, I couldn't say no because somewhere inside of me, somewhere I wanted it, too. Still it snowballed and now, now I'm in over my head."

(You kissed Fernando Torres? Forget that he's married, he's... ? And you're... ? Why haven't I noticed that? Maybe it's a good thing that I didn't notice because it means I don't judge people in that manner. I mean, how would you tell a gay man from a bisexual from a heterosexual? Yeah, I don't think you can but still... Right in front of my face. This whole time. Three years).

Sergio looked up at Iker and found him to be calmly listening, nodding for him to continue. No judgement. No lecture. Just present. Just listening. “He came to me, Iker. In his time of need, when he needed a shoulder to cry on... He trusted me. I held him while he cried about her. I helped him patch things up with her multiple times... So many times. It just gets hard, Iker, because I love him. I am in love with him. I didn't mean to be. I mean, the bastard fucking stuck his leg out and straight tripped me."

Iker grinned, pretending to reach into his pocket for a card. He held it up for the empty stadium to see and pointed to some imaginary area on the pitch where Sergio supposed Fernando would be. "So, you're in love Sergio?" (With a man?) (A married man?) (With kids?)

Sergio blushed, looking down to his boots, pounding them against one another to get the brown and green of the pitch out of the studs of them. “Yeah,” Sergio sighed out in a tone of defeat, "but he made it a point to let me know that he didn't love me back. He compared me to pie while we were in Miami. I had gotten pretty heated about something he had said and told him that there was no way he could be in love with Olalla because he was constantly cheating on her with me. He got pissed about it, told me that I didn't have any substance outside of the bedroom and that I would never amount to anything more than a 'good fuck'. And that’s not even the worst part of it," he scoffed as he started digging through his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, playing the voice mail for Iker to hear.

“...and you’re not pissed about that?” Iker asked as soon as the voice mail had finished its playback. Frankly, he was shocked at Sergio’s composure despite the content of the message he received yesterday. Sergio was never this calm even if the allegations being made against him held any kind of truth.

“I’m trying to take control of the things I can," he sighed out, rubbing the wrinkles out of his training shorts as found the blue of the sky and the warmth of the sun on his cheek. "I'm taking control of the situations I can and letting go of the ones I can’t. Besides, most of that shit's petty. Her marriage is falling apart, she's scared, and she only knows his falsities of what happened between us.”

“That actually sounds like a good defensive strategy," Iker responded, voice full of pride as the words of his friend found him. "It sounds like you've matured a lot overnight. I can't believe it. My little, Sergio. All grown up.”

"It's what happens when you and Cris are the only one's awake on a plane." Sergio laughed out as he vividly remembered that day. "I heard he was sick over at your place, by the way?"

"Yeah, he's going through a lot of shit right now. Like truck loads of it all at the same time," Iker sighed out as his memory dragged him back to the night before.

“If plants can grow from shit, people can grow from it, too.” Sergio closed his eyes and nodded his head as the words tumbled off of his lips, attempting to shake off the events of the day before as the memory came flooding back to him. He felt his groin stirring with the echoing sounds of the collision of flesh, of their flesh, and he felt goosebumps forming along his arms as he remembered the feeling of Cristiano powerlessly writing beneath him. "He'll come out of it, I'm sure. Send my regards.”


	7. San Iker (A Secret for A Secret)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"He had a knack for anticipating what was to come and had a notorious record of bringing them to a dead end. On more than one occasion he’s saved his team. On more than one occasion he’s saved his country. On more than one Passion he's stopped the unstoppable. He’s always been there when they needed him, thick or thin, in high pressure situations... He was always there. Saving them. Every once in a while though, he would come across one that was struck in just the right spot, one struck just hard enough, one that even he couldn’t see coming, one that couldn’t be saved."_

He had a knack for anticipating what was to come and had a notorious record of bringing them to a dead end. On more than one occasion he’s saved his team. On more than one occasion he’s saved his country. On more than one occurrence he's stopped the unstoppable. He’s always been there when they needed him, thick or thin, in high pressure situations... He was always there. Saving them. Every once in a while though, he would come across one that was struck in just the right spot, one struck just hard enough, one that even he couldn’t see coming, one that couldn’t be saved.

* * *

Sergio pulled up to the Posada del Dragón and climbed out of the car, throwing on his aviators as the sun attempted to find him through a graying sky. Fernando had sent him the room number via a text message for the first time in the three years they had been “just fucking” as Fernando had so kindly put it. Sergio scoffed at the thought of the two words, the man was drowning in blatant denial. Sergio casually made his way towards the elevator, doing his best not to draw attention to himself as he selected his desired floor, holding down the ‘close door’ button to avoid sharing an oh-so small space with a bratty looking seven year old. He felt guilty about it at first and, then he realized, he’s done worse things to feel guilty over. He was probably at the verge of doing another. Sure, he had told Iker that he was letting go of things he couldn’t control just yesterday but those were just words. Words could do a lot of things, they can work as a band aid or a sword depending on how they’re wielded. Or they could simply be simply themselves: hollow sediments.

The elevator finally dinged releasing Sergio from within its confines to study the floor chart: left for 2400-2450 the sign read. (Left it is). He passed by more than a few doors and heard more than his ears had been intended to hear before he found himself standing in front of room 2422. He went to knock on the door but allowed for his fist to hang hesitantly in front of the metal rectangle instead. He didn't know what the fuck he was doing anymore. He didn't know why he was coming to meet up with the guy that told him that he could never be in love with him. The very same guy who had told him that he held no substance outside of the bedroom. The guy who told his wife that he and he alone was the home wrecker... (No). Sergio spun on his heels and started to head back into the direction from whence he came when the door suddenly flung open. He cursed under his breath at the sound of the other clearing his throat but he turned to meet the gaze of the older man anyway.

“Hey," Fernando whispered out weakly as he caught sight of the Sevillan, dressed to depress with his aesthetic on point. He pulled his bottom lip in between his teeth and cursed himself and his audacious thoughts. "I figured you’d be hesitant about coming and... I, I understand. I just... I just want you to hear me out and I know I don't even deserve the chance but, please?"

(Damn those freckles), Sergio thought as his eyes found the high rise of those cheekbones covered in the kisses of the sun, (and damn me).  Sergio nodded negligently at the request and started to head back towards Fernando's door, trying to figure our why he was still weak in the knees for a person who had treated him in the way Fernando had, as something lower than dirt. 

Fernando stepped to the side, just out of the door frame so Sergio could step inside of the room and released the breath of air he hadn't realized he had been holding as he closed the door behind the two of them. He turned and found Sergio inspecting the oh-so red interior of room, nodding his head in approval. Of course he would approve of such flamboyance. He was going to make a joke about it but he figured it wasn't his place and settled for anxiously rubbing at the back of his neck instead. 

Sergio didn't care much for most of the hotels in the area but this one had always been one of his favorites when... No. Those days were over. He was just here for an apology. That's all. He glanced in the corner of the room where Fernando had stashed his luggage, noting that there was something under Fernando's blue blazer, something that seemed very out of place...

“Look Sergio," Fernando started, scratching his arm nervously as he stared at the back of the defender's head, "I’m sorry. I know, sorry doesn't mean much of anything anymore but... I truly am. I wasn't... I didn't think about you and it was very selfish of me. Not just for what happened with Olalla but for everything I've done and said within these past few weeks. For what happened in Miami and for Olalla…”

Sergio turned, scoffing at the mention of the she-devil's name, and scrunched his forehead in disbelief. He officially hated Olalla and her gullible mind but he hated Fernando's ignorance more. He was apologizing for the past few weeks when he should have been apologizing for the past three years. He wanted to shake him, slap him around a bit and listen for the screws he was certain were loose within his mind but he settled for gritting his teeth and shaking his head.

“I really and truly am, Sergio. And I just really want us to sort this out! Can you just hear me out? That's all I'm asking?”

“Us?" The usage of such a word after Fernando had adamantly denied the very existence of a "them" made his heart flutter. He hated that he was being rendered weak in his resolve by an otherwise trivial thing but for him... For him, it meant everything. He scratched at one of his eyebrows and then smoothed it over with one of his fingers, calming his nerves as he focused on his breathing. "Okay. I’m listening.”

“Look, about what I said in Miami… I was drunk and frustrated. I was irritated because during half time I had to hear about Cristiano’s ball control on that free kick and how if I were ever going to be anything more than a has-been then I needed control. After hearing about how shitty you are at ball control, you step on the pitch and this, this motherfucker goes and scores a header! Perfect fucking ball control. And then there was you, doing everything you could to take the control away from me on the pitch. I guess I, I guess I tried to balance that out by taking control off of the pitch. You know, compensate for the lack of control on the pitch with the control I have within my personal life. If that makes any sense? And then you came up to me at the bar and started talking about all this other shit that was out of my control and I just snapped! I said a lot of things I shouldn’t have, a lot of things I didn’t mean to say...”

Sergio looked out the window and studied the busy life of the city below, wondering how many of them had their own little telenovelas going on behind their plastic smiles and forced laughs. He knew that Fernando had been frustrated in Miami, knew he'd be apologizing soon. “…and the thing with Olalla?”

“Yeah. About that," Fernando sighed as he ran his hand over his face. "She must, she must have gone through my phone with the sole intent of finding something to fight about. She had to have, I mean, she went through the trash in my email account and hit the fucking jackpot. She found all of our emails. Shit, she chose the textured condoms and strawberry lube one to call out of all things…”

“Could’ve been fuzzy handcuffs and whipped cream?” Sergio accidentally laughed out, hating himself for falling back into "them" and how "they" were so easily. (Fuck you, Sergio. You're so fucking easy). 

“True and I’m still not sure if that’s even the tip of the iceberg. She got pretty heated about it and I panicked and threw you under the bus. I’m so sorry, Sergio. I truly am. I had no idea she’d go so far as to call you and threaten you and all of that shit. She can be a bitch, you know that, but she’s never gone to those extremes. So, when I got home for lunch, she had told me about what she had done. I called the club and they excused me for the rest of the day so I could head out to “resolve a conflict with a member of the National Team”. Del Bosque hooked me up when I told him in no detail that you and I had some stick. So, I packed a few of my bags hopped on a plane, flew straight here, and now, here I am.”

“So, you’ve been here for three days now? ...and you’re just now trying to resolve this? Uhm, that's... I guess late is better than never, right?” (No, it's not. What has he been doing since he's been here? Three days. If I had only known he had been here then maybe... No). "Why are you just now...?"

“I just wanted to make sure I didn't rush into it but I didn't want it to be too late either. I mean, you needed some time to... I don't know, be mad at me, get all of that anger out of your system, and coming too soon would've only made things worse between us.”

“You're probably right. I mean, when I heard that voice mail from Olalla, I, I kind of lost it. All I could think of was taking a few free kicks." (And I took more than a few). "It's weird. I think I'm the yin to your yang because I feel as if the pitch is the only place I have control. I even thought I could take on Cris in a shootout from the 35 yard line, I was so heated. ”

“You do free kicks with Cristiano a lot? I mean, you guys spend a lot of time together?”

“I did. He has a pretty sweet technique and gives pretty solid advice,” Sergio’s face scrunched as he searched Fernando’s expression for any clues as to where this was going. "He'll let me take free kicks during some of our matches when the ball is close and center." (Is he getting jealous)? Sergio had never seen Fernando become jealous over his relationships with other people in the past, it was usually (no, always) the other way around. “But of course, he never gives away his secrets for free.”

Fernando’s head snapped to attention as Sergio finished and he studied the smile on Sergio's face to see if the other man was being serious. “Oh. So what kind of things do you have to do to get into his little free kick fan club?” Fernando had his eyebrows raised skeptically but he wouldn't put such things past a man with Cristiano's ego.

Sergio smiled with satisfaction at the bitchy edge that suddenly seemed to surround Fernando’s tone of voice. “Well,” Sergio grinned, casually falling into the recliner with a sigh. “I’m currently teaching him how to slide in and come out clean with his tackles.” He winked, forcing the innuendo.

Fernando scoffed in disbelief and smiled in amusement, though his soul felt as if it had caught fire. "...and? Is he any good at it?"

"Oh yeah, one of the best. He can come in from any angle, slide in deep, and pull it out clean. He's in and out, total power. Total accuracy."

He watched with pleasure as Fernando gritted his teeth together in a semi-jealous fit. In the three years that they had been "together but not", this was another first for him. Fernando, jealous over the idea of Sergio spending one-on-one time with anyone other than him? He was going to savor this, especially after all that he had put him through. He could feel Fernando's hand on his chest - pressing, his lips on his lips - tasting, and his hips suddenly grinding against his own - begging...

* * *

Iker rang the doorbell and listened as the dings of the bell echoed off of the walls of Cristiano's home, impatiently shifting all of his weight off of one foot onto the other and back again. Had life been normal, he would’ve never removed the emergency key from beneath the loose tile in Cris’ entry way. No, he would’ve waited patiently for Cris to come trotting to the door from down the visble hallway... had life been normal. He shoved the key into the slot, turned it with the knob, and pushed the door open, inviting himself into the luxurious home. He wandered in and stopped as he was greeted with the strong scent of liquor in the kitchen area and momentarily frowned in disapproval as he found Cristiano sitting at the table with several empty glasses in front of him. While far from ideal, it definitely beat what he had came back to the day before.

“Hey, you.” Cristiano called up as he caught sight of Iker restocking the pantry, emptying a brown bag from the market into his cabinets and refrigerator without much thought. He was putting everything in the wrong place but Cristiano didn't really give a shit. Everything was fuzzy any way.   

Iker looked back at the Portuguese man and smiled at the clearly drunk man who was sitting where Cristiano's voice seemed to be coming from. He was waving idiotically but the simple fact that he had greeted Iker...? That was progress. He was far from a fan of Cris’ current outlet, it hurt him a little actually, knowing very well why Cris had chosen to refrain from alcohol only drinking on special occasions; He felt as if Cris would drink himself away: his morals, his beliefs, and his ideals along with whatever it was that had happened to him in the locker room. It was nice in a way though, that big, dumb, goofy grin was better than the solemn look of agony Iker had grown accustomed to over the past three days. He had listened to this same man talk about wills and an abrupt end to his football career; Iker had advised him that missing two days of practice was not career ending but Cristiano had went on anyway. Yeah, the ridiculous grin was definitely the better alternative whether or not he agreed with how it managed to get there. 

“Hey, you! What are you doing in here? Besides making dumb decisions?” Iker approached him slowly, studying the Portuguese man in the process; he looked so much better than he had yesterday, like himself with the addition of a drunkard's grin. Iker had been strict and consistent with the ice packs and the anti-swelling creams, he was pleased to see it paying its dividends. “You look good. I can finally see your pretty face.”

It was like a switch had been flipped, like the vibrancy and colour of the world had suddenly been drained and everything else had been left dim, bleak, black and white again. He was left dim, bleak, black and white again. Cristiano hastily grabbed his cup and the bottle of Bourbon that had been sitting in front of him, fumbling with both and struggling to balance them at their base in his drunken state but managing. As he unscrewed the top, he considered the cup, decided against it, and pushed it away as he drank straight from the bottle. Tears were streaming down his face as the liquor hit the back of his throat and burned it's way down inside of him. He wanted to feel numb again. Needed to feel numb.

“Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay.” Iker tried as he pulled the bottle away from the other man and pulled him into a warm embrace as he tried to make sense of the abrupt change. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. What did I say?” He threaded his fingers affectionately through the other man's hair, absorbed his tears with the fabric of his flannel and the warmth of his shoulder, and listened for anything that would help him piece together this. Anything that would help him piece together and reform the Cris he once knew.

“It’s not what you said. It’s what he said. When he was fu-fu-fu-….” Cristiano choked on the words but Iker heard him, freezing in his movements as the words resonated within him. He finally understood what had happened in the locker rooms that day. After a few moments of shock left him paralytic, he squeezed Cristiano a little tighter and even shed a few more tears with him. He looked around the house and was finally able to see and understand what he was looking at. It made sense now, all of it. Every mirror in the house had been shattered by Cris’ Yasiel Puig signed baseball bat – he couldn’t look at himself. Iker had brought him back here, to his home, yesterday, thinking that familiarity would do him some good... He had left to get some takeout and came back to a floor littered with glass shards. Fact: Cristiano had a lot of mirrors before he... It explained why Cristiano had pretty much started bathing in hand sanitizer - he probably felt filthy no matter how many times he washed himself. He knew now that he was throwing back that bottle of Bourbon in a desperate attempt to try to fill the void of being used and discarded. He even knew now why he couldn’t let him go, not now, not ever. He whispered soothingly in Cristiano's ear, promising him that things were going to get better, that they had to get better. He promised him that he was going to be okay, that he would be there for him no matter what. He reminded him that people who tore others down only did so to build themselves up. He assured him that he didn’t judge him, could never judge him for the indiscretions of a crazed lunatic. The most important thing he told him was said with no words at all: he held him as he cried, listened as he spoke. ((I’m here for you)).

* * *

Cristiano had been carrying on an actual conversation for the past fifteen minutes: progress. Of course, it was random, filled with his ideas and philosophies; Iker would have never thought of Cristiano as a deep person but everything changed that night as he listened to his laughs, his theories, his observations, his self-discoveries... It was a bad time to fall, the worst time to fall, and yet there he was falling. No. He was diving, stretching out, reaching out to save this one because this one, this one seemed to matter more than all of the rest. 

"I think I can talk about it." It came out of nowhere. Whispered but spoken, unsure and yet firm. "Just promise not to judge me." Cristiano whispered as he found a ceiling fan with his eyes, switching from blade to blade as they passed. "I don't think I can handle being judged by you, Iker."

"You don't have to talk about it now if you're not ready to, Cristiano, but when you are... When you are, I am here for you and I can promise you that I wont judge you. I would never do such a thing."

* * *

Cristiano finished telling Iker the details of the rape, waiting for something, anything really. A judgmental facial expression, statement, a groan in disgust. Instead, Iker placed a gentle hand on his cheek and whispered the one thing he hadn't expected to hear. “You are the strongest person I know.” That was all he said. All he needed to say.

Iker leaned in and softly kissed the lips of a broken spirit. He kissed Cris as if each second would bring him closer to healing, closer to acceptance, closer to closure. A secret for a secret. He gave himself to Cristiano ("you're still desirable"), gave all the power and all of the control back to Cristiano ("you are not weak"). He swore he saw a spark in his eye that night ("there's life after this"), swore he saw a revitalization in his spirit spurring his soul back to life ("you, people like you were not created to be discarded"). He would swear in his old age, when he was wrinkled and gray, that it was the sweetest, most passionate night of love he had ever made in his lifetime, that he had been blessed to have experienced such a night with such a man. In his present, he just lay there in exhaustion, cradling Cristiano tenderly in his arms. He listened to the steady rhythmic breathing of the other man as Cristiano eased into a deep slumber for the first time in three nights. “I love you, so much.” Iker whispered as a tear fell from his face, a tear shed for fear, for hope, for comfort, for love, for anything, for everything, for nothing. He held on to him, all through the night. As if his life depended on it. As if it were up to him and only him to save this one. (I'm not letting you go. You're not slipping through my fingers).

 


	8. Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Piece of him felt bad for Sergio, piece of him felt badly for himself, and another piece just felt plain bad. He thought he could get rid of the bad after a good fuck but now he just feels worse, as if he’s just purchased a one way ticket to his marriage's demise. He should be in London, with Olalla trying to work through this."_

Fernando groaned as the sunlight made red by the curtains seeped in through the windows and carelessly danced along his cheekbones. He threw a pillow over his face in a desperate attempt to try to catch a few more minutes of sleep, instantly regretting his decision as he hated having oversized fabrics and pillows thrown over his face; he had always felt as if he would suffocate beneath them at any given moment, as if death by asphyxiation was a sudden thing. He whined as he came to accept the fact that he wouldn’t be going back to sleep anytime soon and thrashed around in the bed as a child throwing a tantrum. (Well, I could just lay here and rest up a -)

His thought derailed as he felt an arm land heavily just above the curve of his hip and his heart jumped into his throat. Fernando urgently tossed the pillow in the general direction of the arm and threw himself away from the freshly discovered mass and, being that he had rolled to the edge of the bed in his sleep, he found himself crashing to the floor, gasping for air. His heart was pounding as he cautiously poked his head up, peering over the side of the bed towards a once sleeping Sergio who had just lazily risen as far as resting on an elbow would allow. Sergio slowly batted his eyes to ‘open’ and looked back at Fernando as if he had just barfed up a gnome.

(Maybe my hair should still be blonde), Fernando thought as he sat on the floor looking up at the beautiful Spaniard. (How could I have forgotten where I was and who I was with after a fuck like that?)

“Are you, are you, are you okay?” Sergio managed to choke out between his giggles.

Fernando closed his eyes in embarrassment and looked back up at Sergio who was now resting his head on carelessly crossed arms just over the side of the bed. He had almost forgotten over the course of these past few months just how much he missed waking up to the Sevillan, how gorgeous he looked when the sun bounced off of his caramel skin deflecting into those large almond brown eyes. He seemed so relaxed, so carefree. No worries, not a care in the world. So it seemed. Fernando knew better, though. The mornings had always been a good time for him, for them, even during the international breaks. It had always been the evenings, when Olalla called, that would upset Sergio.

(One less thing to worry about?) He had promised himself he wasn’t going to cry. He had done this to himself and he knew that he had to accept the consequences of his actions. He felt like such a hypocrite as the notions made their way through his mind. (If I’m going to be accepting it then aren’t I in the wrong fucking country?) Fernando pushed the bad thoughts out of his head, settling for the thoughts of the moment rather than those of the past (even if these “past thoughts” were merely four days old). Sergio was smiling right now, that’s all he needed in the moment, (right?) He reached up and ran his hand through Sergio’s fine locks of brunette before leaning in to lay a soft kiss on his chin. He could sense Sergio’s smile at the contact and knew that some goofy grin was probably plastered across his face.

Sergio tilted his head slightly lower, ghosting his mouth over Fernando’s nose before placing it gently against the freckled Spaniard’s lips. He would have kissed Fernando all morning if Fernando wouldn't have jumped up suddenly, claiming that he needed to use the lavatory.

* * *

Fernando closed the door behind him, leaning against it, allowing himself to sink to the floor under the weight of his thoughts. He had just needed some space to think. He reached up and quickly locked the door. (What the fuck am I doing here? I shouldn’t be here. I should be in London. I should be with my family: my wife and my kids. I should be with the people that I love. Not here. There’s nothing for me here. No one for me.) Piece of him felt badly for Sergio, piece of him felt badly for himself, and another piece just felt plain bad. He thought he could get rid of the bad after a good fuck but now he just feels worse, as if he’s just purchased a one way ticket to his marriage's demise. He should be in London, with Olalla, trying to work through this. Not running away from it all, not in Spain, not with Sergio. Fernando groaned. He just wanted to be honest but he knew that would mean he would lose everyone closest to him for good. (What the fuck am I doing here?)

* * *

Sergio watched as the bathroom door closed and sprung to his feet as soon as he heard it lock. He quietly and cautiously made his way over to the corner of the room where Fernando had stashed all of his luggage and threw one last glance over his shoulder. He gently lifted the blue blazer, so as not to disturb anything else around it, and furrowed his brow as his eyes fell on three sheets of college ruled paper with, what he had been able to quickly identify as, Olalla’s handwriting. Sergio gently restored the blazer to its place just before he slipped into his denim jeans, folding the papers and shoving them into his pocket. He threw on his T-shirt and shouted at Fernando through the bathroom door, informing him that he was stepping out to grab them some coffee.

Fernando shouted his order through the door and Sergio was on his way. He ran to the closest coffee shop he could find and quickly placed their order. He sat down as the coffee began to brew and pulled the papers out of his pocket and shook his head in self-admonishment as his hand began to tremble nervously:

> _Fernando,_
> 
> _I have gone uptown to meet up with my lawyer. I intend to file a petition for divorce by the end of the day, hence I will not be home for lunch. I am attributing our split to irreconcilable differences unless you’d rather I write ‘my husband sucks better dick than me’ or ‘infidelity’. I tried to stick it out until you got home so we could work through it like I had initially intended but as the day aged, I just couldn’t. You said this was a thing of the past, Nando. You didn’t say it had started three years ago and that you CONTINUED to have an affair behind my back. You have no idea how betrayed I feel, Fernando. How hurt I am. I promise not to interfere on your access to the children, it’s what’s best for them and just because you are a shit husband doesn’t mean you’re a shit father- there will be no sins of the father visiting themselves upon our children._

Sergio stopped right there. He didn’t need to read anymore nor did he want to read anymore. Tears filled his eyes, reaching the brim, threatening to spill over and stain his cheeks. Fernando didn’t leave Olalla for him because she had threatened Sergio’s career. Olalla was leaving Fernando and Fernando was here trying to leave his problems for another day. He was here for self-preservation, not to apologize to him. Fernando only said what he had to say so he could get Sergio to be a "good fuck".

(I really am nothing but a fuck. No more than pie... and I made it so fucking easy for him. God damn it! God damn me!) Sergio grabbed their coffees and stormed back to the hotel, making a quick detour on the way. Fernando was still in the bathroom when he had returned. He had heard the sound of the shower running and figured that, at the moment, it was probably for the best. He gently placed the letters on the end table located on what had been Fernando’s side of the bed last night, using Fernando’s coffee as a paper weight. Sergio meticulously made the bed until it had looked as it did before he had… Sergio choked back the tears as the beautiful memory of ~~their~~ his love making turned from something sweet and cherished to something bitter and burdening.

After a moment passed, Sergio placed the plate delicately on what had been his side of the bed and departed without looking over his shoulder once.

Fernando was greeted by the smell of coffee as he opened the bathroom door and quickly looked around the bedroom frowning as he found an empty room. (No, Sergio. That’s odd), he thought as he looked around the room for a second time. He felt his heart jump into his throat as he caught sight of the letter Olalla had written him, the one that had spurred his impulse trip to Spain to try to fuck all his problems away, being weighed down by the Vanilla Bean Mocha he had ordered. “How had he found the..“ Fernando stopped speaking as his eyes fell on the single slice of pie sitting on Sergio’s side of the bed.


	9. Just Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Iker had spoken to the coaching staff and they set up a meeting with Florentino two days ago. Iker had told them, with Cristiano’s permission, what he had saw in the locker room and they all felt it necessary for Cristiano to take at least six weeks off but Iker argued, on his behalf, for two maximum. They agreed to allow him back within two weeks only if Cristiano promised to relax and talk to a therapist on his return. They wanted him home in the meantime, so now here he was... Playing PES. On the couch. He felt lighter than he had in a long time, even before the… incident he had never been this content with his life."_

Cristiano groaned as the sound of his alarm clock going off reached his ears and cursed its creator instantly. He didn't have anywhere to be and he certainly had no one to see, so why the deplorable device was even making its existence known was unbeknownst to him. He whined as the throbbing within his head worsened and tried to figure out why the pain was so severe... Either way, the screeching of the clock was making it worse so it had to be silenced immediately. Cristiano rolled off of his stomach and onto his back and threw his arm over top of the alarm clock, slamming what he thought to be the snooze button with all of his might. He wanted to make sure the thing never beeped again. 

“MOTHERFUCKER!” Cristiano shouted as he shot up in his bed and delicately held his own hand, interchanging a glare from the alarm clock to his hand and back to the clock again. He had completely forgotten that Iker had broken his old clock two days ago and had replaced it with... whatever the fuck this devil contraption was. He didn’t have the patience for this shit, his head hurt and now his hand hurt. He snatched the torture device up off of the end table and threw his legs over the side of the bed. Finding his feet, he quickly made his way out onto the patio attached to his bedroom and smiled in relief as he caught sight of his destination.

He let out a sigh of relief as the cursed clock sunk to the bottom of his pool. He stared at it for a moment, completely satisfied with himself, just before he made his way into the kitchen, in search of anything that would make the pounding in his head stop. Cristiano smiled as a yellow post it note caught his eye. There were two little pills on it under the words “FOR YOUR HEAD”, a tall glass of water standing just beside it. (Oh, Iker), he thought as he threw the pills to the back of his throat, washing them down with the still cold water. He nearly choked to his death on his water when he caught sight of another post it only inches from his, the words: "FOR MY ASS" scribbled across the top, the area below completely empty.

As his stomach growled, Cristiano made his way over to the pantry, grabbing at the door handle and found himself greeted by something of a legend taped to the inside of it: a green post it with the markings, SAFE and a red post it with the word AVOID. He was extremely confused until he opened up the pantry the rest of the way; all of its contents had either a green post it or a red one stuck to the side. Cristiano’s face drew up a flush as he gave way to a giggle. Who knew Iker could be so sweet? He pulled out the safely marked saltine crackers and made his way to the living room, pulling out his phone as he collapsed to the sofa.

> **Cristiano** : You’re fucking awesome. That is all.
> 
> **Iker** : You have no idea how thrilled I was to receive this. Welcome back Cris!
> 
> **Cristiano** : In record time, too. I just have a fucking awesome support system.
> 
> **Iker** : And don’t you ever forget it!

Cristiano lounged around the house, searching for something to do to help the time pass. Iker had spoken to the coaching staff and they set up a meeting with Florentino two days ago. Iker had told them, with Cristiano’s permission, what he had saw in the locker room and they all felt it necessary for Cristiano to take at least six weeks off but Iker argued, on his behalf, for two maximum. They agreed to allow him back within two weeks only if Cristiano promised to relax and talk to a therapist on his return. They wanted him home in the meantime, so now here he was... Playing PES. On the couch. He felt lighter than he had in a long time, even before the… incident he had never been this content with his life.

* * *

Iker swung by the house for lunch and, to be honest, Cristiano could get used to him just walking in like he owned the place, demanding to hear an update on his hang over.

“It’s pretty much gone now, thanks to you. I really appreciated what you did…” Cristiano pointed towards the refrigerators and pantries, “very nice.”

“Yeah, I figured you've never had to deal with one of them before so…” Iker trailed as he watched Cristiano’s gaze divert downwards as if he were ashamed of himself. He walked over to the younger man and put a comforting hand on Cristiano’s shoulder and gave it a bit of a squeeze. “Hey, it’s fine. Don’t be too hard on yourself. You were, and are, dealing with a lot. I mean look at you now and then look back just four days ago? You’re doing fantastic, Cris.”

Cristiano shot a shy smile back up at Iker drawing a blush from the older man. “You should stay here, keep me company. I’m going crazy here by myself.” It was true. He'd never just stayed in by himself, he was always going out with friends and, even after the... incident, he'd had Iker there with him to keep him company.

“I wish I could but I have to do another Head & Shoulders commercial today.” Iker winced as he thought of the commercial. He hated doing them because he seldom ever used Head & Shoulders but it was an endorsement that he'd be foolish to let go of. 

“There’s no way you actually use that stuff?" Cristiano chuckled out as if he'd read Iker entirely. "I mean, you have great hair.”

“It’s alright I guess.” Iker smiled softly as he ruffled Cristiano's hair, a curl wrapping itself around his finger. 

“You know how much I hate excessive humility, Iker. Just admit that you have great hair.”

“Oh, Cris. We can't all be you..." He sighed as he leaned down to leave a gentle kiss on the forward. Fear overtook him though, and he ended up hugging the other man instead. "I have to go back now," Iker hurried out, "try not to implode of boredom.”

“I’ll do my best but I can make no promises.”

Iker laughed at the younger man and shook his head as he gently closed the door behind himself and made his way to the car. (He's doing so much better. He's going to be just fine).

* * *

Cristiano looked up from his book in confusion as the sound of the doorbell bounced off of his living room walls. He pushed his reading glasses to his forehead and checked the clock. He wasn’t expecting anyone, he had abandoned contact with everyone except for Iker and Iker hadn't rang the doorbell earlier so why would he now? Sure, certain members would say ‘hi’ or something but that was it and it was almost always through Iker. He looked out the window and allowed a smile to form on his face as he caught sight of the person in wait. How could he have forgotten about him? He swung the door open without even thinking twice about it. “Sergio!”


	10. Past Praying For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their lips fit perfectly against one another and when Cristiano started kissing him back, when he felt the response he knew that, not this moment (no), all the one's before it had been a mistake. The past three years, Fernando, everything that didn't involve his lips pressing against Cristiano's, everything that didn't involve their tongues dancing fluidly with one another - wrong, wrong, wrong. He felt himself backing the other man against the wall and he heard Cristiano moan into his mouth as his thigh pressed against the groin of the other man. (Wrong, wrong, wrong). Cristiano was yielding to him, was allowing him to simply take what he wanted from him and his memories from the night of the locker room flashed behind his closed eye lids. (Wrong, wrong, wrong)

Sergio’s heart beat rapidly at the sound of the large doors opening. A large part of him had been hoping that Cristiano wouldn’t answer the door, wanting to keep his distance from anyone other than Iker. The other piece of him was relieved when he lay eyes on the frame of the older man, he didn't look like he had just been to hell and back, but that relief dissolved as he remembered why he was there. He felt a piece of him die when he realized that Cris was actually happy to see him. Happy. How could he take that from him – again? “Cris! Well, fuck me. You don’t look sick at all.” Sergio observed quietly as he made his way inside. “I’ve been annoying the shit out of Iker asking about you and all he ever says is ‘he’s not well’. I was expecting you to open the door” no he hadn't, “and not look so… well, put together?” Well, that was an understatement. He expected him to look as if he were walking a line between life and death.

“Yeah, I just sort of snapped out of it you know?” Cristiano smiled. It actually hurt him to smile at Sergio. He felt terrible for keeping him out of the loop as they had drawn close over the past month. Sergio had opened up to him about his three year affair with Torres, his sexuality. Cristiano had become Sergio’s confidant. They were able to talk about anything and everything, until…

Sergio eyed the winger closely, taking note of the wrinkle that had formed between Cristiano’s brows. “Well you look good. Very good. The swelling went down pretty quickly, huh?” Sergio responded, pulling Cristiano out of his thought and into the present exchange between the two of them.

“Yeah, Iker made sure I…” Cristiano cut himself off as he turned the words of Sergio's observation over and over again within his mind.

Sergio’s breathing hitched at the sudden change in Cristiano’s demeanor. Here it goes, he thought, taking in a large breath. This is it...

Cristiano’s mind went wild, from here to there with theories and implications. How had Sergio known about his face being swollen? He turned to face the Sevillan but found himself relaxing as he realized that this was Sergio, the same guy who was trying to validate a drunk asshole. Sure, there were parts of his mind screaming for him to panic, to call Iker to ask him if he had told anyone about that night, but… Cris knew Sergio. He was one of the only people Cristiano had felt completely safe with before... the 'incident'. Besides, he assured himself, the board had received Iker’s statements two days ago, maybe it had spread already? No one could keep a secret in Real Madrid. Well, except for him and Iker of course. “Sorry,” Cristiano quickly apologized, “I got distracted for a bit there. Lots of thoughts, you know? But, uh, yeah it all went down within twenty-four hours so no big deal, thank goodness. I looked like I had eggplants growing out of my head. Scary shit.”

Sergio nodded silently, trying to hide his bewilderment. How had that not have been a dead giveaway? He felt a knot swell up in his throat as he let his shame wash over him. Cristiano really must’ve trusted him. Sure, he could bounce back from what had happened between him and Fernando. After all, Fernando had been very vocal and up front in denying anything outside of a physical relationship between the two of them. Maybe he wasn’t in love with him after all… but looking into Cristiano’s eyes and seeing that he trusted him entirely – oblivious to the fact that he, that Sergio, betrayed him in the most awful of ways? Sergio’s broken heart shattered. That was more than he could handle.

Cristiano picked up on Sergio’s little facial cues and guilt washed over him again, mistaking Sergio’s shame for concern. He didn’t want to keep it from Sergio but he didn’t want to burden him either. He didn't know what to do so he did the only thing he knew how to do... “PES?” he offered hoping the Sevillan would be able to appreciate his attempt at a distraction.

“Let’s do it.” Sergio breathed offering the forward a faint smile. He had come here with the sole purpose of telling Cris everything but he couldn’t help that he had suddenly felt a bit selfish, a bit nostalgic. He wanted to share one last game, one last laugh with the number seven. He wanted to hold on to them and the deep friendship they had shared a little bit longer.

They played a quiet match, both of them wrapped up in their own individual thoughts. Cristiano had been fouled and smiled as he grew tired of the silence. “How the fuck was that not a red? You took me out from behind?”

“You’re playing as yourself, Cris.” Sergio absently chuckled.

Cristiano scrunched his face together in confusion and quickly glanced over at the defender. “So?”

“Be grateful you didn’t get carded for simulation.” Sergio grinned mischievously as Cristiano missed him with a pillow he had thrown/ 

“Well, fuck you too, Sergio. Fuck. You. Too. GOAL!”

The game ended in a two all draw, though Cristiano wouldn't shut up about the "blind referee".

“I’m thirsty. You want something to drink, man?” Cristiano asked as he stood up from the couch, making his way into the kitchen.

“Nah man, I need to use your bathroom,” Sergio called out as he quickly headed down the hallway. He quietly closed the door behind him, just before he thumped his head back against the door in frustration. (What the fuck am I doing?) He knew the longer he stayed here in pleasant company with Cris the harder it would be to let go, to be honest, to tell him. But he was holding on to them so tightly his knuckles were probably white, figuratively speaking. He had to let them go. When he was being honest with himself, he knew that the reality of it was that he was just clutching onto thinning air, on the mere memory of something that once was. When he was being honest with himself, he knew that they had died in the locker room that night and so had the Cristiano he had always known, so had the idea of everything that he had ever supposed himself to be as a man. Sergio flipped on the faucet of the sink and quickly washed his face, took a big breath, and walked out of the bathroom. He let his eyes scan the home as he made his way to the kitchen and noticed that there were about ten nails sticking out of the wall with nothing hanging on them. Sergio’s stomach churned at the sight. He knew for a fact that they had all held a mirror not so long ago, he used to fix his hair in several of them, and why they were suddenly missing was no mystery to him. He walked into the kitchen and took a seat at the bar, glancing over at Cristiano. The new one who probably hated his own reflection because of him.

Cristiano could feel Sergio’s eyes on him, watching him, studying him as he floated about the kitchen. (He’s trying to figure out where I’ve been, what’s going on with me), Cristiano thought to himself as he felt himself tense up. (Sergio is a great person and a great friend, he won’t, he won't judge me. I should tell him, stop keeping what happened from him. Stop lying to him. No. I’d only afflict him.) Cristiano sat his drink down directly beside Sergio and hopped up on the stool with a sigh. “Are you alright, Sergio? You seem a little lost in thought?” Maybe if he turned the conversation on Sergio… Maybe then he could avoid discussing what was going on with him.

Sergio turned his head towards Cristiano and lay his left cheek flat against the bar top. “I’ve got a lot on my mind today, Cris," he responded honestly as he traced the details of the smooth surface of the bar. "I am a horrible person but you already know that. I was fucking a married man and I'm, I'm just a terrible human being. I ruined a marriage...”

Cris raised his eyebrows and released a breathy laugh, a sympathetic smile working easily with his features. “Sergio, if that’s the worst thing you’ve ever done…”

“It’s not.” Sergio interrupted as he anxiously, nervously rose to his feet. “I’ve done something a lot worse. I can't even... and you know what's really bad? I don't even feel sorry about it until I see the person I hurt. I don't even think about it, hell, I get off to it until I see, until I..."

Cristiano turned to face the Spaniard, intrigued by the nature of the conversation. He had known about Fernando, hadn't known that Olalla had found out and that it had ruined their marriage though - (a lot seems to be happening within these past couple of days, for both of us) - but to think that Sergio had done something exceedingly worse? Sergio who couldn't dress himself properly, who insisted that flamenco alone was enough to charm any women bold enough to set foot in Spain...? No. Cristiano found his feet and closed in on a bit of the space between himself and the defender, gently placing a reassuring hand on the hand on the broad shoulder of the Camas man. "Indulge me then, Sergio," Cristiano finally managed to say, Portuguese accent playing with the Spanish name as the words tumbled off of his lips and found the ears of the other in no more than a raspy whisper. "How horrible of a life form could you possibly be?" His brows fell as his concern grew, voice laced with intrigue and curiosity.

Cristiano’s hand rose with the Sevillan’s shoulders as the latter lifted with a deep inhale. Sergio slowly turned to face Cristiano but couldn’t force his eyes up from the floor to meet Cristiano’s eyes... If the eyes were the windows to the soul, Sergio didn’t want Cris looking into his own, didn't want him to see the nothing, the emptiness and dust gathering where something that once was but is no longer. Sergio leaned in towards Cristiano, breathing in to draw in the other man’s scent for one last time, (he smells like sandalwood and chocolate mint). He tried to whisper his transgressions into the ear of the other man but he found himself struggling to form the words, the right words. Were there right words for something as monumental as this? Even if he found them, how would he be able to say them? Rather than humming of his indiscretions, Sergio’s warm breath ghosted over Cristiano’s ear and he could hear, he could hear Cristiano’s breathing hitch. Sergio thoughtlessly leaned in a bit more to brush his lips down the Portuguese’s jaw line and, as he felt Cris’ soft lips grazing his, leaned in a bit more until their lips were pressed together in a soft and gentle kiss. He felt Cristiano’s hand float over his heart gently pressing, resting gently against it, not pushing.

Sergio knew that he was simply making things harder on himself, making it harder for him to tell the other man the truth. He had to tell him. Now ...but Sergio continued the kiss begging for Cristiano to grant his tongue entrance. His own selfishness was trying to saw away at the anchor that kept him grounded, the anchor that was reminding him of his reason for being there, reminding him why he was truly standing in front of Cristiano. He just, he just had to taste Cris - for the first time and the last time - before he knew of his sins. Cristiano parted his lips, granting Sergio his final wish and, in that moment, Sergio felt himself ripping to shreds. 

Their lips fit perfectly against one another and when Cristiano started kissing him back, when he felt the response he knew that, not this moment (no), all the one's before it had been a mistake. The past three years, Fernando, everything that didn't involve his lips pressing against Cristiano's, everything that didn't involve their tongues dancing fluidly with one another - wrong, wrong, wrong. He felt himself backing the other man against the wall and he heard Cristiano moan into his mouth as his thigh pressed against the groin of the other man. (Wrong, wrong, wrong). Cristiano was yielding to him, was allowing him to simply take what he wanted from him and his memories from the night of the locker room flashed behind his closed eye lids. (Wrong, wrong, wrong). 

The defender subconsciously draped one arm - his left, lightly across Cristiano’s spine, hand gripping the curve of the older man's waist, allowing his right arm to roam freely across the toned body of the winger. He sustained the kiss as he gently started tracing those wrists that had once been bruised for leverage. He gently traced the thigh he had bruised in a fit of his frustration. He could feel Cristiano slowing down the kiss, becoming increasingly hesitant as he traced the cheek bone he had bruised when Cris had tried to speak... As he finished tracing the line across Cristiano’s chest, from one armpit to the other, and guided his hand to the rib cage he had launched his foot into, he felt Cristiano freeze beneath his touch completely. With the kiss now broken, Sergio mustered up the strength to look up and saw that the face of the Madeiran was filled with confusion, as if he were trying to make the connection, as if he had but just couldn’t wrap his head around it.

Fat tears fell from Sergio’s eyes, the only physical forms of his regret that would be present that day, as he nodded towards the number seven, in an attempt to confirm what was slowly dawning on the forward. That this was his answer to both of his questions, the voiced "what" and the unvoiced "who did this to me" that he was sure he fell alseep asking himself every night.  He leaned in, kissing each crease of the armpit, leaving a line of kisses across Cris’ chest. He kissed both of his wrists, his thigh, his cheekbones, his ribcage, his abdomen. “How horrible of a person am I?" Sergio choked out eventually, echoing Cristiano's question. "As horrible as they come. A person that deserves to die for betraying the trust of the only person who had ever truly cared about him,” Sergio whispered. He backed away and looked at Cristiano who had seemed to take on a paralytic state mentally, physically, and emotionally. Sergio absentmindedly and somewhat eccentrically (far from sanely) grazed his finger from the other man’s cheekbone down to his jaw line. “I know it doesn’t mean anything,” he whispered, “I know I could never make up for what I did to you – that it’s passed praying for but I’m, I'm so sorry, Cris... I'm so sorry that this had to happen to you. That I happened to you.”

Sergio stepped away from the still paralyzed form of Cristiano, feeling drained and emptier than he had on the day of the incident. It had been done. He knew that he had probably just lost the only person in his life who had cared for him... but he had been honest. He had done it to himself and now he had to accept it, had to deal with the consequences of it. Sergio turned and walked out the door, leaving the shattered remnants of what had once been a heart on the floor before Cristiano.


	11. Phoenix Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"He seemed to be just standing there. If you saw him you would think that’s exactly what he was doing but he wasn’t. Not really. He was falling, crashing down and there was no one there to catch him. He had awakened that morning feeling reborn, feeling as if he had just walked out of hell a lot stronger than he had ever been. It turned out that’s all they were, feelings. Empty, hollow feelings. He didn’t miss them."_

He seemed to be just standing there. If you saw him you would think that’s exactly what he was doing but he wasn’t. Not really. He was falling, crashing down and there was no one there to catch him. He had awakened that morning feeling reborn, feeling as if he had just walked out of hell a lot stronger than he had ever been. It turned out that’s all they were: feelings. Empty, hollow feelings. He didn’t miss them.

Cristiano’s legs gave way to the newfound emotional weight that had just been placed onto his shoulders, sending him staggering down to the floor as he found himself unable to cope with it all. He closed his eyes in defeat, not even bothering to try to rise to his feet again. Why should he when there would always be something there to shove him right back down again? Someone? So he just lay there sprawled out across the floor. Even if he had wanted to stand, he probably couldn’t; the air filling the spaces above him seemed to be crushing him under its weight. Even the universe seemed to be against him.

It wasn’t that he was angry with Sergio, he couldn’t be angry with him. He felt neither confused nor betrayed. There was no anger, no disgust, no contempt; he only felt numb, he only felt indifferent and that was hardly a feeling at all. Cristiano closed his eyes, watching as his once memories, once so precious and dear to him, rapidly turned into instruments of his own self-torture:

* * *

It was his first day in Madrid; the city was vibrant and alive, pulsing and loud, beautiful and so full of life. He had arrived to take a tour of the facilities of his new club but he had done that already, he had been far too anxious to wait for an official tour of the place. So he had decided to take a stroll to familiarize himself with the city, with the culture, with the people, and to figure out where everything was in the area. The club had told him they’d appoint a player to be his liaison in the event that he got lost roaming about the city on his own, a sponsor if you will and it didn’t take too long for him to pull out the number and punch it into his phone. It was the first time he had ever met Sergio.

* * *

They were rolling around on the pitch, laughing hysterically as they stained streaks of green across the white of their shirts. They were supposed to be partnered up for stretches but Sergio had made a crack about a comment that had been made in a post-match conference the day before. He had forgotten what was said, both in the conference and by Sergio but... It wasn’t important, though. It never had been. That’s not why he had the memory, why it was locked up in his mind replaying over and over. No, it had very little to do with what they were doing and why they were doing it. It was there because it was the moment he recognized his love for Sergio. That he loved the man beside him, that he'd be wherever whenver Sergio needed to be there. 

* * *

He sat across the table from the fuming Spaniard who was rambling on about another “bullshit” red card he had picked up. Cristiano remembered why he had gotten that red card and had even thought it was deserved but he wasn’t about to tell Sergio that. He had thoughtlessly made a crack about Sergio being like a bull when he saw a referee pull out red on a day prior to that one and, well, it wasn’t necessarily a reciprocated metaphor (Sergio had popped him the arm for that one). He remembered sitting across the table from the man thinking that this was all he needed. He didn’t want to try to flip him (he had thought him to be straight at the time). He didn’t need a relationship with him outside of their parameters of their friendship, though he had often thought about how nice it would be. He didn’t need anything more than what he had. It was the moment he had first fallen in love with Sergio.

* * *

He was sitting at a table in the lounge of the hotel lobby. He had been drinking a glass of water as he watched Pepe and Marcelo make fools out of themselves only to leave for ‘unchartered territories’. He had opted to stay behind, exhausted from the game against Chelsea. He sat enjoying the silence before he noticed Sergio walk up to the bar to make conversation with Torres, a person he had pointedly avoided. It wasn’t as if he had a problem with Fernando, he just didn't get on very well with other forwards from teams other than Real Madrid and Manchester United. He listened, confused when Fernando had said something about “there is no we” and “the goddamned “L” word. He listened as he heard Sergio practically begging Fernando to “love me, too.” He stood up and left the lounge. That was the moment he had decided to love Sergio a little louder.

* * *

The rest of the team had vacated immediately after training but Sergio and Cristiano had decided to train a little more. Cristiano had collapsed where he stood in a fit of laughter, snorting and choking on air as joyous tears streaked down his cheeks. Sergio had just taken a practice penalty kick and the ball, well the ball had hit the crossbar and had came back, crashing into the side of Sergio’s face and the man didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He watched the other man sink down next to him, a look of defeat painted against his features. He had complained earlier of a lack of control over the situation with Fernando and now it was translating on to the pitch. That was the moment he had decided to teach Sergio a thing or two about control: about knowing when to strike, where to strike, and how to do so to effectively gain the upper hand.

* * *

Cristiano’s eyes fluttered open as his mind finally fell black, as his memories faded back into their respective pasts. He was unable to form any sort of emotional reaction to his memories, to those little scars on his brain... He felt detached from them all, as if he were on the outside watching little snippets of somebody else’s life. He couldn’t bring himself to believe that the man he was seeing had ever been him; that he had ever felt anything outside of this – what he was feeling now and in this moment – nothingness. The man in the clips had been so patient, so selfless, so understanding... He didn't know how he had ended up there, in his current state of mind feeling nothing in spite of the everything that seemed to be going on around him, when his life had peaked only to crash... but he hated being here. 

He knows most people would say that Sergio was the answer to all of his problems. That Sergio was the reason why he was lying on the floor. That Sergio was the catalyst behind his indifference. But it wasn’t Sergio who had lost control of his life. No. Cristiano had lost control of his own life. The question was how to get it back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **ASL Story Line available beginning at this point**


	12. Let It Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was an act of insanity. Maybe it was foolish. Maybe he had found the exit he had been so desperately searching for."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **ASL Story Line available beginning at this point**

If you hadn’t known any better, you would probably think you were standing in the middle of the dreary London town. The clouds were hanging dangerously low in the sky and there was a frosty breeze running through the trees surrounding the small stadium, whispering secrets all were too distracted to hear. Thunder bellowed in the distance and lightening cracked across the sky only a few miles away, jumping from one cloud to the next. The heavens were preparing to release it's flood gates, to wage a war; it was only a matter of time before the heavens fury unleashed.

Iker and Sergio had arrived at the Ciudad at the same time and both seemed nervous about leaving the protection of their respective vehicles as the clouds loomed over them in a most threatening manner. They had a game that day, which was unusual... They usually had training the day before the game and were forced to take up residency for the night within the Ciudad’s apartment facilities. Due to construction on the residential facility and field maintenance however, they were given the day off yesterday and permitted to sleep within their own homes. They had received instructions to be at the Ciudad to catch the bus to the Bernabeau at 1200 and not a minute later "or else"... So here they were, come hell or high water.

“Hey, Sergio!” Iker called over as he caught sight of his co-captain. "Fucking weather, yeah? Shit came out of nowhere."

Sergio gave him a small wave of acknowledgment and simply glared up at the sky through his filtered lenses. He looked ridiculous as he was wearing his sunglasses despite the lack of sun; he had gotten no sleep last night before though and his eyes were bloodshot and dried. There was no way he was going to be as focused as he needed to be for today's game.

“Long night?" Iker persisted as he came up alongside the Sevillan and squeezed his shoulders within his hand comfortingly. "Yeah, me too.” It was a one sided conversation but he preferred the sound of his own voice to the booming sounds of the thunder. They walked around the bus together and both were brought to a dead halt as they saw a mass of police officers and EMT workers swarming around the entrance to the club, waiting and speaking anxiously amongst themselves. Iker could have sworn Madrid’s whole police force was there and it looked like they were building a procession towards the front of the bus.

“What. The. Fu-“ Sergio was interrupted by a few members of the security staff breaking free of the crowd of law enforcement officials, advising both Iker and Sergio to follow them. They were quickly ushered down the hallway, passing through the familiar surroundings with an unfamiliar feeling.

Iker’s face felt clammy and his throat became constricted in the chaos of it all. He shot Sergio a questioning look who had replied by simply turning his palms up. He didn’t like this, anything about this.

Sergio's expression bore equal confusion; he had never seen so many police officers at one time. Maybe they were using the facility for some sort of convention? He voiced his theory to Iker who seemed to breathe a bit easier at the sound of it. But why were they being led away from the bus?

They were led to a conference room deep within the building's interior where they found the rest of the team waiting: the whole team. The first squad, the Castilla, the managerial staff, the trainers, the physios. Everyone.

“The prime minister’s been shot,” someone shouted suggestively as they walked into the room, spurring an uproar from the present members. There were gasps throughout the room and a few of the internationals whispered “Who’s that?” Iker’s face scrunched as that would explain absolutely nothing. Why would there be a huge police force there? At the Ciudad?

The club President walked into the room and the look on his face brought the room to a dead hush. He stood in front of the room, whispering to the coaching staff who were quietly accounting for everyone. When Ancelotti nodded, someone quickly stepped out and came back with a frail woman in tow.

“Hello everyone,” she greeted the room. “My name is Ms. Liza Garza and I am an emergency crisis counselor. This institution, you, has suffered a grave loss.” The rain fell swiftly, heavily crashing to the Earth. The storm had come.

Iker inhaled sharply as a sharp pain took up residence within his chest.

“Mr. Enrique Sanchez-Gonzalaz was in a fatal car accident this morning,” she said quietly, voice filled with sympathy. She glanced around the room and bowed her head out of respect.

As horrible as it sounds, Iker was relieved. It was the club's secretary and, while that's sad, he was just glad that it wasn't Cristiano's name leaving her lips.

Fate laughed and there was a sudden commotion in the hallway. There was shouting, tasking certain people to do certain things. There was panic and pure chaos. It was as if the Pamplona bull-run was going on out there and no one was coming in to inform them of what was happening. After what seemed like minutes, a man finally ran in and whispered something in Florentino’s ear. His face paled as his entire body collapsed, thudding motionless to the floor.

Iker jumped up immediately and pulled the door open to see what was going on. An officer of the law was posted outside and quickly pulled the door back to a close, but not before Iker could see where everyone was running to and from. "The locker rooms?" Without a second thought, he rapidly pulled out his phone to call Cristiano. The phone rang and rang… (Voice mail? No. No. I’m just freaking out. I’m just freaking out). So he tried again. (Voice mail). And again. (Voice mail. Stupid fucking voice mail). "Please just pick up the fucking phone."

The voices resounding out of the hallway were suddenly anything but hushed. “We have a 10-56!”

* * *

Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was an act of insanity. Maybe it was foolish. Maybe he had found the exit he had been so desperately searching for.

If you had asked him what suddenly made him rise to his feet, breaking through the bonds of gravity that had tried to bind him to the floor, he probably wouldn’t be able to tell you.

> _“I do not believe in a fate that will fall on us no matter what we do. I do believe in a fate that will fall on us if we do nothing”._

If you had asked him why he grabbed his keys from the counter, why he decided he needed to leave his home he would’ve told you that “there are no answers there, only questions”.

> _“The truth is that our finest moments are most likely to occur when we are feeling deeply uncomfortable, unhappy, or unfulfilled. For it is only in such moments, propelled by our discomfort, that we are likely to step out of our ruts and start searching for different ways or truer answers.”_

If you had asked him why he had gone there, to that place of all places: he would’ve told you that “if you lost something, you had no chance of finding it if you never returned to the place you had lost it in.”

> _“You said you knew the perfect place to run to. A place that was empty of people, and buildings, and far, far away. A place covered in blood-red earth and sleeping life. A place longing to come alive again. It's a place for disappearing, you'd said, a place for getting lost and for getting found. I'll take you there, you'd said. And I could say that I agreed.”_

If you had the chance to ask him why he had done it: he would’ve looked at you apologetically and said “there only one way to erase a scar.”

> _ “I have learned that if you must leave a place that you have lived in and loved and where all your yesteryears are buried deep, leave it any way except a slow way, leave it the fastest way you can. Never turn back and never believe that an hour you remember is a better hour because it is dead. Passed years seem safe ones, vanquished ones, while the future lives in a cloud, formidable from a distance.” _

Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was an act of insanity. Maybe it was foolish. Maybe he had found the exit he had been so desperately searching for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes from:
> 
> Ronald Reagan, First Inaugural Address, January 20, 1981
> 
> M. Scott Peck
> 
> Lucy Christopher, Stolen: A Letter to My Captor
> 
> Beryl Markham, West with the Night


	13. Ripples

> _“I used to think that I could stop nearly everything that flew at me. I used to think that everything had a way to be saved and that I alone could find the way to do so. I had always thought that it was my responsibility and mine alone. Then I grew up, saw how it really worked. I wasn’t the only one who worked in prevention on the pitch, am not the only one. There are people around me, defenders, who can jump in at any time to stop it from progressing, from building up; defenders who can stop it from reaching me. They just have to recognize the threat soon enough. I am the last line of defense so I have to be vigilant if they’re not, at all times. I failed to do that this time and now, now I’m paying the ultimate price. It had felt so real, like I was actually holding on to it, keeping it from meeting the end. I celebrated my victory too early though. By the time I had realized that I had never actually saved it... That I had just brushed it with my fingertips... It was already too late. It had already met its end.” – Iker_
> 
> _“I used to think that everything happened for a reason, for some grandiose purpose we were too limited to ever understand. I used to think that you could justify everything with scripture; that you could resolve everything through prayer and faith. I used to think that there was a God who would intervene if He ever saw us in distress, who gave us strength when we needed it. I used to think there was a God who had appointed myriads of angels to look down on us, guardians who kept us safe. Where was Cris’ guardian at? Where was God?” – Kaka_

Iker sat quietly in the church, waiting respectfully for the services to begin while picking at his fingernails, his cuticles, his thoughts. He looked around at all of the people who had gathered there to remember Cristiano, his family and friends, realizing that the church was packed full and that there were even more people outside, most of those made up by Cris’ fan base. Deep down inside, he wished that Cristiano was there to see how many people loved him, how many people had cared about him... Another piece of him though, another piece of him was wallowing on the opposite end of the spectrum, was causing his fist to ball up and his teeth to grit together. (Where the fuck were all of these people when Cris had needed them?)

Sergio was sitting right beside him, holding his face in his hands as he wept. That’s all he had done since the police had discovered Cristiano's suicide in the locker rooms that gloomy day. Sergio had even been committed for treatment for a couple of days but had quickly been released as he wasn't labelled as a threat to himself nor to anyone else for that matter. He had kept repeating that he didn’t deserve death and that he deserved to live his life in pain and anguish. Iker had never asked him about it, about what he had meant, he could barely function let alone worry about how someone else was doing it. Sergio had already told him that he had stopped by to see Cris the day before he had, before the police had... That they had talked. Iker just assumed that he was going through the same guilt he was, feeling that there was something he could’ve done or should’ve done differently. Hell, Sergio didn’t even want to go to Funchal but Cris had a will, one he had drafted in the early stages of his trauma, requesting that Sergio say a few words.

Iker pushed his thoughts to the back of his head as he saw some preacher take the stage before him. He listened as he preached about God. (Please, even Kaka doesn’t believe in this ‘God’ anymore), he thought cynically as the man read from scripture. Kaka had admitted that Cristiano's death had made him lose faith in one of their crisis counseling sessions and Iker was right there with him... So much so that he had to fight the urge, suppress his desire to stand up and challenge the preacher. He felt like asking him where the fuck God was when Cristiano had slit his wrists under the running showers of the locker room. Where the fuck was God when Cristiano was bent over and raped on the benches of that fucking locker room?

The rest of the team had stayed behind in Madrid, trying to put the pieces of their lives together [without Cristiano]. The locker room was dead bolted and they had placed a bar across it just to ensure that there was no entry. Their game had been rescheduled and they were all pardoned from their international duties though there were some on the squad who were ready to play and annihilate the fuck out of anyone who dared to cross their path. They had all wanted to come but Ms. Garza had advised against it, suggesting that there may have been some kind of relapses if they had to reflect on what Cristiano had taken from himself (in her opinion, as Iker constantly reminded her that Cristiano wasn't to blame). Of course, she had given Sergio and Iker the nod; In order to relapse, you had to have taken some steps to move on, to push forward and neither of them planned on doing that anytime soon.

Iker watched as a shaky Sergio rose to his feet. The preacher must’ve called him to the stage while Iker was lost in his thoughts. Sergio spoke through his tears, choking on them often. “Cris and I had been really close before he… He helped me through a lot of shit.” Sergio glanced over to the preacher who shrugged off the profanity and told him to speak from the heart. “He once told me that there were more than seven billion people in the world, not just one. But I’m here because of ‘just one’. You’re here for ‘just one’ but that’s just it isn’t it? Cristiano was never just a person, was he? He would make an ass of himself just to get you to smile if you were having a shit day. He would always give you these little trinkets of wisdom whenever you needed them. I was going through a rough time recently and had told him that ‘life was shit’ and he just laughed saying something about how plants grow from shit and that he supposed people could grow from it, too. He said that we all have shit somewhere in the roots of who we are and that we would’ve never gotten anywhere worth being without going through it.”

Iker started sobbing uncontrollably at the sound of Cristiano's advice. Piece of him wanted to laugh, piece of him wanted to fall to the floor in anguish, but all of him thought that the advice was 'so Cristiano'. Cristiano must’ve been headed somewhere truly beautiful and meaningful before he… He must’ve been headed somewhere genuinely worth being at.

“He imparted his distinguishing knowledge of petty things and the things worth caring about. He showed me that to be a truly great person, a truly great friend... all you had to do was be there. That's all you had to fucking do”... and just like that, Sergio was a completely shattered man. Nothing more than tears and regret, self-hatred and broken parts of a soul.

“I tried, Sergio! I tried!” Iker burst out quickly after Sergio started to collapse under the weight of the moment, unleashing the floodgates though they had been broken long ago. "I thought he was better... I swear it. I never thought he'd... I didn't know. I never would have left him there if..." Everyone stopped and turned towards Iker, some crying with him, others offering sympathetic smiles, all of them feeling his pain. "I tried, you have to believe me!" he begged Cristiano's family as he felt himself struggling to breathe, struggling to cope with it all, unwilling to accept that this was actually happening.

“You were there, Iker.” Sergio softly reassured him, looking down to his feet. “But where was I?” he whispered. (Pulling him under to save myself). He knew that it was he who had basically handed Cris the knife. He looked down at the palms of his hands, looked down at the red he swore was covering it, and cried in shame.

The memorial ended shortly after Sergio’s speech, at least the ceremony did as Cris’ commemoration would last a lifetime. Iker and Sergio were quickly swarmed by Cristiano’s family members, each offering them a warm hug and a shoulder to cry on. By the time they made it out of the church, Iker was fairly certain they had left tears on every person inside, a piece of themselves with each of Cristiano's relatives but now they had to get to their car with haste or they were going to miss the procession. They stopped dead in their tracks when they reached the parking lot though, staring in awe at the sight before them. Cristiano’s fans had lined the streets with candles and there wasn’t a single shop vendor in Funchal who hadn’t participated. The sun was setting but they had made sure Cristiano would have flickers of light to guide him to his final resting place. Iker and Sergio just stood there for a moment, looking out at a sea of little flames flickering in the dimming light.

The city was quiet as the procession drove through. There was no music being blasted from a shop, there were no fans running up to their cars, there wasn’t even a car on the road that wasn’t a part of the procession. People came out of the stores without a word, families from their homes, even the homeless from their hiding places.

“I wish he could see this, Sergio.” Iker wondered aloud, his voice just above a whisper. “He had always said that the people of Portugal had their reservations about him but, oh, if he could just see this…”

They watched as Cris was lowered into the Earth. They watched as Delores threw herself on her son’s coffin refusing to let him go so soon. Iker had to fight the urge to do the same. They sprinkled the Madeiran soil on his casket and whispered their final goodbye.

* * *

Fernando stepped off of the plane, grateful to be on solid ground again even if he was back in London. He dragged his bag behind him, heading straight for his Mercedes as his security escort pinned back the fans and the paparazzi. He wasn’t anxious to see Olalla but it was his home. His career was here, his house, his belongings.

Cristiano’s suicide had made headlines worldwide and now had FIFA and UEFA breathing down the necks of both clubs and countries. They had to do monthly mental health assessments from now on and Fernando’s first one had him questioning his life and life decisions; if he would be content with just Olalla, if she ever decided to take him back, or if he was destined to find happiness with someone else, or no one at all.

Fernando sighed as he slid into the driver’s seat and welcomed the heavy thoughts that had been weighing on his mind as he began to maneuver through London traffic. During the international break, all he could think about was Cristiano. It was weird because they had never really talked about anything and not for the lack of common ground, they had both been nominated for the 2008 Ballon d’Or and they both had Sergio in their lives. Cristiano had seemed so happy during the “anything but friendly” match against Chelsea just over six weeks ago... He seemed to have it all, how had he fallen from glory to suicide so quickly? He knew the media was trying to point towards his unhappiness from a year ago – a whole fucking year. He wasn’t as dumb as the journalists though.

Fernando pulled into the driveway of his home and climbed out of his car, pulling his bag out of the backseat as he did so. He hesitantly made his way up the driveway but the door opened before he could reach it as Olalla came bursting out. She ran up to him and hugged him so tight Fernando thought his lungs would collapse. “Oh, Nando. I had heard about Cristiano on the news and I had thought, I thought a lot over these past two weeks, about our last exchange. I was so worried that I, I shredded up the divorce papers. I want you to be happy Fernando. I don’t want to threaten you with a divorce to keep you or to force you into Sergio’s arms. Oh, god. Sergio. How is he holding up?”

Fernando just shook his head, both because he knew the Sevillan would be taking it hard and because they hadn’t spoken since Sergio had left him, leaving a pie in his place. He wasn’t sure if it was how he truly felt or if it was a ripple effect of Cristiano’s death but he missed Sergio. He needed him, needed him to know he was more than pie.

“I still can't believe that Cristiano..." Fernando could feel the tears staining her cheeks seeping through his sleeves, "Did you hear about Lionel?” Olalla asked as she pulled away from her husband, shooting Fernando a questioning glance as more tears threatened to fall down her face. "Lionel Messi?"

Fernando simply shook his head, still at a loss for words. He hadn't spoken to anyone since the news of Cristiano's death broke, nobody was speaking because nobody knew what to say.

Olalla smiled weakly as she handed him the local paper. “He dropped his number ten jersey for a number seven. In Cristiano's honor, of course. Quite a grandiose gesture.”


	14. Promise to Remember (Hear Me Now)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"...only the good die young and he was set to be immortal"_ "

The flight back to Madrid had been a difficult one to say the very least. Iker had gotten drunk the night before they left Madeira and had tried to throw himself into the still open grave site of Cristiano, shouting that they needed to be with one another. He had stayed drunk until they boarded the plane and, in his belligerent state, Iker was a little too vocal about his hopes that the plane would go crashing into the earth, hoping to be reunited with Cristiano again. But wait, there was no God so he supposed aloud that that wouldn't be happening anytime soon. He had been marshaled and fined as soon as they landed by a very sympathetic officer of the law.

Sergio wasn’t really helpful. He had watched as Iker tripped over himself running to the still open grave, allowing the guilt to stab at the vacant place that had once held his heart over and over again. He and Iker had eventually fallen asleep in the cemetery, awakened by a homeless man who had started talking about his own shit life. He listened as Iker drunkenly rambled on about the plane going down, about going up in flames. Not so deep down he wanted to same thing as Iker but he knew he didn’t deserve it. He wasn’t worthy of death; only the good die young and he was set to be immortal. He had accepted his sentence though, and set out to live his life of anguish.

Iker and Sergio got home to find a letter taped to each of their doors. There was a post it on them with the message: “I found this while we were packing up Cristiano’s things. – Katia”.

Iker was a little confused as Katia was at the funeral. Unless they had been placed there before the services - they had been in Portugal for the week. He pulled off the post it to read the writing beneath it. “Iker” the envelope read. Iker recognized the handwriting and immediately gave way to tears. He sat on his doorstep, back pressed against the front door and read:

> _Iker,_
> 
> _There’s so much I wish I could’ve told you. So much I wish I could’ve said. I know you’re probably thinking that I could’ve if I hadn’t of taken the easy way out. But you have to understand, it was my only way out. I could never evict the memories, I could never erase the scars._
> 
> _I just wanted to let you know that I’m sorry. I’m not sorry for what I’ve done to myself. I’m sorry for what it’s going to do to you, what it’s already done to you. But I’m not worried because you’re not me. You’re stronger than me._
> 
> _Don’t fall. Not now. Don’t lose yourself, don’t let yourself go trying to hold onto me. I’m gone, Iker. I know you’re still trying to hold on and that you're refusing to let go of me, that's just who you are... But you need to, Iker. Letting go of someone, letting go of me, doesn’t mean that you’ve stopped caring. I know how much you cared for me and I know that you always will. Letting me go doesn’t mean that you have to forget me. Let me go, accept that the only person you really have control over is yourself. If you lose that, that control over yourself, you’re no better than me._
> 
> _But you are. You are better than me._
> 
> _You had already saved me from Fate once. I just couldn't save myself. I simply..._
> 
> _Surrendered to it._
> 
> _I love you, Iker._
> 
> _-Cris_

* * *

Sergio stared at the envelope, clutching it in his shaking hands and staring at it through blurry vision. He had recognized Cris’ handwriting even before removing Katia’s note. He walked inside and threw it on the countertop, staring at it, glaring at it. He didn’t want to open the envelope but did so anyway, knowing he would deserve every ounce of pain it would inflict on him.

> _Sergio,_
> 
> _Remember the first time we met, my first day in Madrid? I remember getting lost near the botanical gardens and having to call you to come find me. When you eventually found me, we just ended up lost together. I remember trying to ask around, trying to figure out where we were. I remember the looks people were giving me because my Spanish was difficult to understand. I remember your face when you suddenly remembered that you spoke Spanish fluently. We laughed. I remember laughing with you. I remember thinking that I could laugh with you forever. You had taken me to that amazing fish restaurant, Salamar, afterwards. You told me that I would never have better seafood at any other place in Madrid. Can you go there and eat for me?_

Sergio couldn’t breathe. He had completely forgotten about that day in the city. He had forgotten about how he had met Cris for the first time. How could he have forgotten such a thing?

> _Remember the time we had sat down to eat dinner after the match against Celta? We had won it with two goals but not before you were sent off. I remember sitting there thinking about the time I had said you were like a bull when you saw red. Can you go to a bullfight for me?_

Sergio remembered the first time Cristiano had likened him to a bull. He didn’t like that. He had always wanted to be the matador. It’s funny how life works out. How some time later he had come to accept that he had become the bull, a different kind than the one Cristiano had referred to but a bull nonetheless...

> _I loved you, Sergio. I was in love with you. You kissed me and for the first time since… you… for the first time I felt safe._

Sergio couldn’t contain the hurt anymore. He screamed at the top of his lungs trying to force it out into the open air. The already falling tears fell heavier. He screamed until he couldn’t breathe, until he couldn’t think straight. He screamed until there were no words coming out only air. Regret began to course through him, again, but this time it had felt as if he had swallowed shards of glass; shards of a shattered soul. Cristiano was tearing away at him from the inside out. When he had walked away from Cristiano, he told himself that he would accept whatever form of punishment Cristiano would throw his way. He had never expected him to take his life and he had certainly never expected...this. "Don't say this, Cris. Don't do this to me. Please, anything but this."

> _But then you made me hate myself. How could you do that to me? I gave you everything, a shoulder to cry on, a person to vent to, everything you had asked... I would have given you so much more. Was everything not enough? You made me hate myself. It was supposed to be my life and my heart, but it was your words that forced my knife. When did you start to hold so much power over me, when did you take control of what was supposed to be mine? I wish you had never told me. I wish I had never known._
> 
> _But it doesn't matter anymore. It's over now._
> 
> _I forgive you, Sergio._
> 
> _-Ronny_

I forgive you. Those three words that cut through him deeper than any knife could. Sergio crumbled to the floor and gave way to the pain.

* * *

  _Where to go from here? What road to travel on?_

_I spent my whole life choosing, and I always chose wrong._

_Will I try to have the will to be alive?_

_Will I try because I’ve never seen the light?_

* * *

Fernando was sitting in his living room when it had dawned on him. He left the house with no bags, no words... He bought a plane ticket and was headed back to Spain within the hour. Maybe he was consumed by the emotions of Cristiano’s death. Maybe he was on to something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics belong to Hollywood Undead // Hear Me Now


	15. Holding On To You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Iker smiled at the bittersweet recording, patting himself on the back for taking over Cristiano's phone bill. For the first time he left a message after the beep. “I’m still waiting on you to call me back.”"_

He sat at the bar wishing for the first time in his life that he was in some London Parish. Only he wanted to be there in 1814 and in the very Parish that had suffered a tidal wave of beer, due to a ruptured brewery tank, sending nine off to Valhalla. Beer had always seemed to be a solution for him, or at least a procrastination method, a way of shoving all of his problems and issues aside. Dying in a tidal wave of it, though? Well that would literally and figuratively drown out all of his problems.

Sergio finished his beer and thought about getting another. He opted against it, he didn’t really want the numbing effect. He had told himself countless times after Cristiano’s death that he wanted to feel simply because Cris couldn’t feel anymore. That he needed to feel pain because he deserved it. It was a mere half-truth, though; he wanted to feel because he needed to be reminded that he was a human, not the monster he saw in the mirror every morning. He wanted to feel because it meant that he was alive, not dead – he broke Cris in this life and wasn’t ready repeat himself in the next. “A drunk man’s words…” Sergio sighed aloud as the words of his memory summarized his current thoughts. “You were always right Cristiano. Until now. You should’ve never forgiven me.”

“What shouldn’t he have forgiven you for?”

Sergio froze as the familiar voice reached his ears, danced on his emotions and sparked the fire of a very specific kind of rage within him. Surely he hadn’t drank enough to be imagining that voice? Or perhaps he had... He simply shrugged off the voice and surrendered back into his thoughts until ((“Sergio?")). No. No this couldn't be his imagination because there it was again. Sergio turned and scrunched up his face as he found the older man he had expected to see standing just behind him. “Fernando? What the hell are you doing here?”

“I got back to England yesterday, fresh off the break. I got there and realized that England wasn’t where I needed to be right now. I saw Olalla. She destroyed the papers. She said if I wanted to leave her, I could, but that she wasn’t about to drive me away or pressure me into doing anything I didn't want to do... She said she wanted me to be happy.” Fernando answered as he took a seat next to the Sevillan, confidence faltering as he found Sergio in a more disheveled state than he had expected.

“Well, that’s wonderful but it doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

“Cristiano got me thinking...” Fernando started, wincing as he saw Sergio react to the name immediately.

“Cris? My…” (What? He was never yours. [‘I was always yours’]). (His confidant? [‘I loved you, Sergio. I was in love with you']). (His friend? Friends don’t do what he did. [‘I forgive you, Sergio’]). “GODDAMNIT CRISTIANO! WOULD YOU STOP SAYING THAT! YOU WEREN’T… YOU DIDN’T MEAN TO SAY THAT! YOU DIDN'T MEAN IT! PLEASE DON'T SAY IT AGAIN! PLEASE DON'T... PLEASE... AND I KNOW, I KNOW YOU DON’T FORGIVE ME!” Sergio shouted as the voice, Cristiano’s voice seemed to surround him and consume him, hold him and bind him. “Please Cristiano. Please just take it back!”

The whole bar hushed at the sound of the outburst but their whispers, their whispers were heard all around. (“Is that Fernando Torres?”) (“Why isn’t he in England?”) (“Sergio Ramos?”) (“He seems to have taken it hard.”) (“Poor guy.”) Fernando reached over, not caring about all of the attention that had just be drawn to them, and pulled Sergio into a warm embrace. He wanted to tell him that this was probably all just a bad dream, but it wasn’t. He wanted to tell him that everything was okay, but it wasn’t. For the first time Fernando was holding Sergio, not the other way around. For the first time Fernando was there for Sergio in his time of need, not the other way around. For the first time, Fernando was whispering trinkets of comfort. For the first time, Fernando admitted to himself that he had fallen for Sergio but something… Something told him he had fallen too late. Something told him that he had damaged the Sevillan enough to last two lifetimes. Something told him to let him go, to stop being impulsive and to think things through. The something grew quiet as the red guy on his shoulder lined up for a match winning penalty kick against the white angel in goal. It was settled. The cautionary something died and encouraging thoughts filled his mind. Fernando pulled Sergio closer to him and ran his fingers through his hair, vowing not to let go before Sergio was ready.

They transitioned from the bar to his home when Sergio had deemed himself capable. It wasn’t that Sergio was drunk but drained: mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. Fernando tucked him into his bed and assured him he’d be out in the living room if he needed him. The freckled Spaniard sighed as he plopped down on the couch, he had a limited amount of time with Sergio before he had to be back in London for training but he was okay with just being there for him in his time of need. Everybody needed somebody they could turn to… He had been told that Iker was there for Cristiano when he had begun to go through whatever it was he had been going through. He just wasn’t able to hold on to him. Or had he? He knew if Iker off the pitch was anything like the Iker on the pitch then Iker was still holding on, clutching to the memories as if they would materialize... He stopped as he caught sight of a little book on the table. ‘Bouncing Back: My Journey to Closure’ it read. Fernando picked it up and opened it to a random page, frowning as a loose envelope slipped and fell out of it.

Fernando kept his eyes on the page as he reached down to pick up the envelope.

> “I had shattered a spirit and a soul because I had a broken heart. Broken things can be fixed but things that are shattered… I tore someone down and then used him to build myself back up again. And then I just left him there. Used. I admitted my fault by placing my broken heart at his feet. Never have I been so ignorant. How is a broken heart equal to a shattered spirit, a shattered soul?“

Fernando wasn’t sure if he was reading about himself or if he was reading about Sergio. He stuck with the latter, not wanting to feel worse about himself than he already did. He looked down at the envelope he had just picked up off the floor, it had Sergio’s name scratched in permanent marker. Fernando looked up at the bedroom door and listened for Sergio’s snoring before opening the envelope.

* * *

_You are surrounding all my surroundings,_

_Sounding down the mountain range of my left-side brain,_

_You are surrounding all my surroundings,_

_Twisting the kaleidoscope behind both of my eyes._

_And I’ll be holding on to you_

Iker lay on his bed, letting the music fill his room and bounce off of the other walls of the house. He had Cris’ letter clutched tightly against his chest. He knows Cristiano wants him to let go but he’s not ready to do that just yet. He’d fall if he let go of him and Cris had told him not to do that. He chuckled as he remembered Cris say something about selective hearing as his reasoning for not being where Iker had told him to be during a corner. “Iker, you open your mouth and my mind closes its doors. I can’t help it.” Iker sighed and pulled out his phone. He pressed the number with the (98) beside it in the recent calls menu.

“Hey, you’ve reached Cris. No, scratch that. You’ve reached my voicemail. Leave a message. Or don’t. I’ll call you back either way.”

Iker smiled at the bittersweet recording, patting himself on the back for taking over Cristiano's phone bill. For the first time he left a message after the beep.

“I’m still waiting on you to call me back.”

_Tie a noose around your mind loose enough to breathe fine and tie it  
_

_To a tree, tell it, "You belong to me_

_This ain't a noose, this is a leash_

_And I have news for you, you must obey me."_

* * *

> _“The mind is its own place, and in itself_
> 
> _can make a heaven of hell and a hell of heaven._
> 
> _What matter where, if I be still the same”_

Kaka sat outside of the locker room of the Ciudad stadium, glaring at the padlocked door with the burning hatred of a thousand hells. He had picked the lock of the building just to do this: glare. He had understood and accepted that, in life, there were some things that weren’t meant to be understood. He had even held the faith at one point that everything around him was happening for a reason... When Cris died though, Kaka’s faith had started to fail, had started to falter so he had found himself asking his preacher why God had allowed Cris to suffer the way he did, why he didn’t send one of his angels to help guide Cris to the path of light.

> “God works in mysterious ways.”
> 
> (Religions way of saying 'shit happens'), Kaka had thought but he had left such a thing unvoiced. “But God didn’t take his life. Cris took his own life.”
> 
> “How could he when it was never his to take? The Holy Ghost is what compels us all.”
> 
> When faith had failed him, he turned to logic. When he turned to logic, he realized he had been deceived by religion.
> 
> “So if I hit you in the face right now, God made me do it?”
> 
> He had been taught to turn to faith rather than try to understand the world or why certain things were happening around him. He was supposed to just accept that what was happening around him was God working in mysterious ways. Maybe Cris had understood the world after he lost his own faith? “Maybe Cris had realized that we were in Purgatory, that Earth was just another name for it, and made a conscious decision to end the wait and just run off to have fun in hell.” Kaka said in defeat, hoping the preacher would say something to revive his faith.
> 
> “Maybe he did.”

The “Holy Ghost” must’ve taken over his body because Kaka had never hit somebody until then, had never even thought of such thing (or he had but he'd never admit to such a thing outside of a confession but he wasn't even Catholic). He had actually fractured a knuckle. He was removed from the congregation not longer but, for once, he actually didn’t care. Religion couldn’t help him understand because it was founded on faith and not understanding. So here he was, glaring at the locker room door trying to understand outside of religion, outside of scripture. Cristiano had never had a mental health disorder and narcissism wasn’t exactly a life threatening personality disorder. There weren’t even any warning signs until he had started missing practice. Cristiano was the type of person who would walk into practice with a fever of 102 degrees Fahrenheit and say that he still had a degree to go before he went to the doctor. Besides that, Cris was all about his health: mentally, physically, spiritually… Maybe he had been neglecting himself emotionally? Even then, Iker had been there for him...

Kaka sighed as his mind made its way back to the present. He picked up the football he had tucked between his legs and made his way back outside onto the dark pitch. He jogged over to the electrical room and lifted the lever to turn on the lights. They had a game in six days’ time at the end of the week. It was going to be their first game since Cristiano’s passing [three weeks ago] and Kaka was relieved that the two week international break had given them a bit more time to collect themselves. They were going out there to play in Cris’ honor and he didn’t even feel bad for what they were about to put their rivals through.

Kaka dropped the ball 35 yards from the goal. “Alright, Cris.” He was speaking up towards the heavens, just in case he was wrong, just in case there really was a God watching over him with Cristiano. “Just me and you.” He took five giant steps back and assumed Cristiano’s gunslinger position.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Holding On To You by Twenty One Pilots
> 
> Quote from John Milton's Paradise Lost (Notes by David Hawkes)


	16. Married to a Mes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Death ends a life, not a relationship.” ― Mitch Albom, Tuesdays With Morrie_

Fernando rightfully felt intrusive as he opened the letter addressed to Sergio but his curiosity seemed to outweigh his regard for Sergio’s privacy at the moment. As soon as his eyes began to make out the first line of scratches on the paper, he wanted to kick himself in the gut. It was a letter, to Sergio from Cris. It had seemed to have been written nostalgically. Was it a suicide note?

> _“…I remember thinking that I could laugh with you forever. You had taken me to that amazing fish restaurant, Salamar, afterwards. You told me that I would never have better seafood at any other place in Madrid. Can you go there and eat for me?”_

Fernando felt a knot swell up in his throat. Salamar. Sergio had taken him there two years ago, saying that he never ate there without the person he was in love with. Had Sergio fallen in love with Cris at first site? Maybe that was why he was taking this so hard? But Sergio had said he was ‘in love’ with him now, not Cris. When had he fallen out? Or was Sergio just saying that to make conversation? Fernando started to sniffle trying to hold back the tears. Why would he ask him to eat there, knowing it would hurt him? That it would only bring back painful memories?

> _“I loved you, Sergio. I was in love with you. You kissed me and for the first time since… you… for the first time I felt safe.”_

Fernando had to look away to keep his tears from falling on the paper that held the three words Sergio had wanted hear from him not so long ago. He held a hand over his mouth and gave way for emotion. For the first time in years, he was crying for somebody other than himself. He was crying for Sergio. He was crying for Cristiano. Cris had been in love with Sergio… _Had Sergio known? Of course, he hadn’t._ _He was probably too wrapped up in me and I was too wrapped up in myself. If Sergio had known, would Cris still be here?_ Fernando accepted that something holding little value to you may still be far from worthless to someone else. To someone like Cris.  _I had something, someone Cristiano wanted?_  That was a first for him. Fernando would be lying if he said he was never jealous of all Cristiano had. The looks, the ability, the capability to show up when he was needed. For the first time he realized that Cristiano wasn’t as “complete” as he had seemed. He was still incomplete emotionally – he merely had an unrequited love for someone. For someone who had emotionally expended their self in a person unwilling to return the favor – in him. Guilt washed over Fernando as the realizations dawned on him.  _I had been dragging Sergio along for so long he wasn’t able to see himself, a person holding the same kind of love he had for me, mirrored by Cristiano. No wonder why Sergio’s devastated._

Fernando put the papers down, not really wanting to read anymore. He then realized there was only one paragraph left and picked them back up again, despite the stirring coming from Sergio’s room.

> _“But then you made me hate myself. How could you do that to me? I gave you everything, a shoulder to cry on, a person to vent to, everything you had asked... I would have given you so much more. Was everything not enough?”_

Fernando immediately felt remorseful. He didn’t hear Cristiano’s voice in those words but Sergio’s. Talking to him. He shrunk down into the sofa wanting to disappear.

> _“…it was your words that forced my knife. When did you start to hold so much power over me, when did you take control of what was supposed to be mine? I wish you had never told me. I wish I had never known.”_

Fernando’s mind raced as tried to figure out what could have happened between Cristiano and Sergio. What could have happened to open up a role in Cristiano's suicide, a role that was played by Sergio? What could Sergio have possibly said to push Cris over the edge? What didn’t Cris want to know? Fernando became overwhelmed with the questions that he had no answers for. He had a difficult time breathing and recollecting himself.

> _“I forgive you, Sergio.”_

“What do you think you’re doing?” Sergio’s voice angrily boomed from the bedroom as he made his way to the living room, snatching the letter from Fernando.

“I think the question here is what have you done?”

* * *

“How the fuck did you not reach that?”

“You passed it too far ahead. Don’t blame me!”

“If you’re too fucking slow then maybe you should still play for Castilla!”

“Mesut, calm yourself.” Ancelotti had been watching him closely. It was their first morning back at training after the two week international break turned crisis leave and everyone was there. Even Iker and Sergio had showed up, they were inside speaking with the crisis counselor who swore they’d be out in an hour. Jese had just become the victim of another Mesut outburst, the third one since they had started training – an hour ago. Sure the crisis counselor was working with the team to get them to move on but that was off the pitch. If they were okay off the pitch it usually meant it would translate over to their game but it didn’t work that way with Mesut, something Carlo had predicted would happen from the start. “He’s not him but he’s certainly not slow either. Come on, let’s take a walk.”

Mesut shook his head and jogged over to where his manager had started to walk around the outskirts of the field. He already knew where this was going. He knew Carlo was going to tell him to watch him temper or he wouldn’t play in the match at the end of the week. He knew Carlo was going to tell him to be patient with the forward and he really didn’t want to hear it. But he knew he would listen and nod then run back out to resume his training.

“You know, I followed you and Cristiano when I was coaching over at Chelsea.” He glanced over to make sure the German understood his Italian accented Spanish. “I remember thinking that I had never seen so much understanding between two players, between midfielder and forward,

between playmaker and executor. You two were deadly on the pitch together, are deadly on the pitch.”

Mesut looked up from the ground confused with his manager. “I don’t understand.”

“I was reading an article about you guys just before I came here to coach. In it the writer had stated that you two formed the perfect marriage within football. You knew you could rely on him to be where you needed him to be and if he wasn’t there – well, you knew he would be soon. He could lay the ball off on you and you would be able to decipher exactly what it was he had intended to do and vice versa. You two communicated without speaking. I remember thinking that journalist was some crazed super fan. Then I came here and witnessed it. You’re assisting ability paired up with his goal scoring ability – powerful, strong, and well rooted – you two were unstoppable.”

“We were.” Mesut whispered, nodding his head in agreement. He had told himself he wasn’t going to cry anymore so he fought off the forming tears. “But now it’s just me. And he…” he pointed over to Jese, “he’s not him.” He told himself that Cris wouldn’t have wanted anymore tears from him but there were a few escaping as he caught the younger man in Cristiano’s place.

“Something that strong doesn’t just die, Mesut. I don’t expect you to just get out there and feed Jese goals left and right like you had done with Cris. A marriage, on and off the pitch, extends beyond death despite what you say in your vows. How many times do you see a man or woman who had been truly connected with another person with someone new in three weeks’ time after the passing of their spouse? I don’t expect you to just change but you shouldn’t expect Jese to be Cris. There was only one Cristiano and there will only ever be one.”

Mesut nodded looking down to his boots.

“But you’re going to push him to be the closest emulation possible.”

Mesut’s eyes shot up. “Why me?”

“Because, no one understood him like you Mesut.”

* * *

Iker and Sergio sat in the conference room with Ms. Garza. Iker had brought in his letter from Cristiano for her to see and Sergio was refusing to share his with anyone [else]. He swore to Fernando that he would explain everything today over dinner but now he was having second thoughts.

“Iker, I want so badly to tell you that this was a kind and selfless act but I can’t. The root of all ‘selflessness’ is selfishness.”

Iker looked down as his heart began to burn. “What do you mean?” He was two seconds away from ripping this woman's head off.

“Oh, Iker. Why do people support charities? To feel better about themselves, to feel as if they made a difference. Cris wrote this just before he killed himself. He wrote this to feel better about himself, he wrote this for himself as a sense of closure with you. For him.”

“There’s no way that’s true you fucking quack!”

“It is, Sergio. You two just need to accept that what Cristiano did was selfish.”

“Explain mine then, huh? Explain why the fuck he wants me to go to Salamar and to a fucking bullfight. He said in his letter **to me** that it was something I could do for him. That letter was **for me** just like that one is **for Iker**! What Cristiano did wasn’t selfish. It was the equivalent to someone jumping out of the window a burning building... You'd never call them selfish, would you? You'd call them desperate to live, desperate to escape the flames. He had a different kind of fire but either way, you don’t have the right to determine that. You don’t understand why he did it! So shut the fuck up with your stupid quack notions and stop sounding so goddamn ignorant!”

“You got one, too?” Iker whispered as he studied the Sevillan. Sergio hadn't mentioned a letter to him. 

“You know why he killed himself?” Ms. Garza looked as if she was about to dissect his brain.

“It’s not your fucking business.” Iker glared up at her, encouraging Sergio to follow him out of the room.

* * *

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I should’ve told you where I was going.”

“Nando, really it’s okay. I was actually surprised you came here first. Sergio needs you there.”

“Sergio needs more than me, right now, Olalla.”

“What does that mean?”

“Cristiano had written him a letter before he died.”

“Oh no…”

“Yeah, it turns out Cris was in love with him.”

“God damnit! And I bet he told him before he ‘moved on’.”

“Yeah, he did.”

“Wow. Why would he do that, knowing that it would crush Sergio?”

“Sergio says there’s a reason why. That he did something to Cris. I’m supposed to find out over dinner. And Olalla? I’m scared.”


	17. Crash. Crash. Crash.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You watched as he fell, never interfering_
> 
> _You watched as he crumbled and burned to ash_
> 
> _Doing nothing though You knew his end was nearing_
> 
> _We all came tumbling down. Crash. Crash. Crash."_

Ms. Garza stood before them for another group session. Their morning training had finished and it was time for everyone to work on their mentality. She stood and observed, letting each one cope in their own way. It was her first time standing before the whole team, while Iker and Sergio had joined the group once before this was the first time they had been in together. It didn’t make a difference though, as she had realized that both Sergio and Iker were masters of poise. Perhaps they had to be to lead a team as strong as this one.

* * *

 

Kaka sat there, feeling desolate and confused. It was strange for him to feel empty but that’s how he felt. He had lost himself with his faith. He looked down at his ‘Bouncing Back: My Journey to Closure’ journal. On the next blank page he wrote:

> _You watched as he fell, never interfering_
> 
> _You watched as he crumbled and burned to ash_
> 
> _Doing nothing though You knew his end was nearing_
> 
> _We all came tumbling down. Crash. Crash. Crash._
> 
>  
> 
> _They placed a golden medallion upon his fresh grave_
> 
> _For his lost soul, to the Patron Saint Jude they prayed_
> 
> _That You have mercy on this lost soul You could have saved_
> 
> _Honored You still, over his body, a crucifix displayed_
> 
> _Oh where have You gone in our times of need?_
> 
> _Where are the angels You swore watched over us?_
> 
> _Where were you when I became lost, when my faith was freed?_
> 
> _Are You a god or nothing more than the succubus?_
> 
> _Are You not the most holy or to Lucifer do I pray?_
> 
> _Where are the answers I seek? Impart unto me your wisdom_
> 
> _That I may wake and rise up to see this day_
> 
> _As another step towards a beautiful demise, rewarded with Your kingdom._
> 
> _Do You hear my words of despair? Tell me Most High and Mighty_
> 
> _Or are they falling on nothing but air, gone as dust with the wind_
> 
> _Show me Your power, oh Lord, rekindle my faith, ignite me_
> 
> _Or is selfishness the reason for You to have taken my brother, my friend?_

* * *

Iker sighed as the sounds of scribbling filled the room. He didn’t know what to think anymore. How to think. It was as if he had been given a trinket of closure, only for it to be dismissed as an act of selfishness. For only the second time, he reached for his journal.

> _Where there once was a heart now lies a void – hollow, nothing but empty space_
> 
> _Tell me, why is it there, where has he gone? Memories torment me with his face_
> 
> _I can still hear his laugh, I can still feel his touch, I’m not ready to let go – not yet._
> 
> _I’m not ready to move on, I’m not ready to put him in my past, not ready to forget._

* * *

Mesut looked around the room and shook his head. He didn’t understand the points of these sessions. How can you group everyone together knowing everyone has a different question they’re looking for the answer to? Mesut shook his head and opened his journal.

> _A bond shared never to be forgotten_
> 
> _Words need not - unspoken._
> 
> _A dance so beautiful, so pure_
> 
> _Not even in death broken._
> 
> _I move forward, I’ll carry you still_
> 
> _Whisper to me, tell me what to do_
> 
> _I will listen as you guide me_
> 
> _Our dance will never be through._

* * *

Sergio had his eyes cast down, not having the courage to look at the hurt on his teammates faces. He thought if he had looked at them long enough that they would know that it was his fault – Cris’ death, their hurt, everything. He grabbed his notebook. He had a scribbling of something with the context of a broken heart not equaling a shattered soul on every page so he opted to write beneath that.

> _I deserve the anguish,_
> 
> _something that I must come to accept_
> 
> _Yet you leave me with words aimed_
> 
> _to fill me with even more regret?_
> 
> _I am but a servant to you, though,_
> 
> _how you wish me to feel, I submit to_
> 
> _Fill me with agony, burn me with the memories,_
> 
> _that I may never forget you._

* * *

Carlo Ancelotti looked around the room, watching the as the demeanors of his athlete’s would change. He smiled, comforted by the thought of unity. At least they had each other.

> _You floated before me, masked as an angel in disguise,  
> _
> 
> _Blessed with your presence, witnessed true beauty with my eyes_
> 
> _I knew you were alien, not of this world but the next_
> 
> _Your departure was so soon, though, my jovial spirit turned vexed_
> 
> _Anger fleeted quickly though, as I knew you were called home_
> 
> _Cherished too much to leave peacefully, you found a way on your own_
> 
> _Privileged to have watched you dance with that flighty smaller German_
> 
> _Please forgive me for missing you, unlike you, I am but a human._
> 
> _Watch over us, Cris, help us recover from the loss of you with each passing day_
> 
> _Hold a cloud over Barcelona, and guide us through each key forward play_


	18. Broken Records

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"He wasn’t going to kick him around like he had done to Cris – no – Sergio didn’t want any part of Fernando’s mind blacking out during this. He wanted Fernando to see what he had turned him into. He wanted Fernando to see the role that he had in Cris’ suicide. He wanted Fernando to feel what it was like to be used. He wanted Fernando to feel what it’s like to lose all control..."_

He had tried distracting himself with the television but that obviously wasn’t helping. He had tried to read, instead he read the same line over and over again. So, Fernando paced the length of the living room for the one hundredth time within the past thirty minutes. He was waiting for Sergio to get back from training, waiting on Sergio to tell him what had happened between he and Cris. His heart leapt out of his chest and into his throat when he heard the sound of the Porsche pulling into the drive. He had been preparing himself for this all day and he suddenly found himself improperly equipped for what his ears may or may not hear. Sergio opened the door and threw his gym bag to the floor. He was frustrated as far as Fernando could tell and, obviously, pretty angry about something. Maybe today was not the day.

“Oh, hey…you.” Sergio acknowledged him without looking into his eyes. They seemed to be going anywhere else until he finally took an interest in a fiber on his shoe.

His eyes stay cast down for a only a few moments but for Fernando those moments seemed to drag into hours, he had thought about so much within that time. When their little spat had ended just the day before, Sergio had decided he'd tell Fernando about Cris; Fernando hadn't pressed him about it or anything, under the bittersweet assumption that Sergio had owed him nothing. When Fernando voiced as much, something had changed in Sergio's features when he worked up the reply "This I owe you."

"So did you want to eat first, or…" his voice trailed as he caught sight of the little Chinese takeout boxes.

"I burnt dinner and had to recover quickly." Fernando explained. "There wasn't really much time left. I had just gotten so wrapped up in... Everything. You know, Olalla and Cris and Iker and now you. I can't help but feel as if, as if I were there for you emotionally, if I hadn't been such an..."

"Asshole," Sergio supplied.

"...an asshole, then maybe you wouldn't be taking this so hard. I guess I'm just great at destroying things. First you and now dinner."

"I'm sure I wasn't the first." Sergio hadn't meant for the words to come but they had and he wasn't the type of person to take back something he meant. He had told Florentino as much after he had been pulled, alongside Iker, into the President’s office to explain their verbal joust with Ms. Garza. "You know what? Fuck it. Fuck dinner. Let’s just talk. I won’t be able to eat, anyway."

"Makes two of us," Fernando replied. Nervous was an understatement for how he was feeling.

Sergio walked into the living room and turned off the television. He stopped and examined the sofa, he paced its length three times, and then lay down on it as one would in a psychologist's’ office. He folded his hands just on his xiphoid process and looked at Fernando expectantly. He didn’t seem to be angry, only apprehensive. “Where do I begin?”

“How about where the two of you began?” Fernando decided to start off light. He didn’t want to just dive in and punch him right in the gut. Just get him to reiterate a few things and then gradually guide him to where everything had gone wrong between he and Cristiano.

Sergio let out an exhale of relief - he hadn’t even realized he had been holding his breath - and cast his eyes up to the ceiling. His eyes started to swell up with tears and one ran astray as he closed them to let the fond memory wash over him. “Cris", Sergio breathed out eventually, "Cris, had gotten lost in one of the botanical gardens and I was supposed to be his 'guide-type thing' from the club. But I had an appointment earlier in the day and had received a shot that had made me really loopy, so I wasn't able to meet up with him right away. So he called me, scared shitless, asking me if I could just give him directions over the phone," Sergio chuckled as he seemed to be replaying the conversation in his mind.

Fernando had never seen Sergio so pensive, so wrapped up in the tormentous clutches of thought. He had honestly deemed the Sevillan a good-looking moron from the onset of their, whatever they were. You kind of had to be a moron though, Fernando thought in an attempt to validate himself, to allow yourself to be treated the way that he had treated Sergio.

"I told him that I would go down there," Sergio continued, "help him find his way out and back to his hotel. By the time I found him though, after fifteen straight minutes of searching, I had lost track of where I had come from and we just ended up lost together. He was panicking enough as it was and then I came along and freaked him out some more.”

Fernando released a chuckle, “Sounds like you. No offense, you're not really the most comforting

person to be around when you're...” Fernando trailed as he looked deep into the Sevillan's eyes, gently breathing out his finish, "when you're lost."

“Yeah,” Sergio blushed, looking away from the freckled man. “Anyways, I had told him to go and ask around, to see if anyone said anything helpful that would let us know where we were while I searched for something familiar. I had circled the area five times, to no avail, before coming back to check on him, to see if he had figured anything out. Some woman had her face scrunched up…” Fernando watched as Sergio did his best to recreate the face: eyebrows furrowed together, lips in the form of a tight pucker. He looked ridiculous. “…not even an inch from his asking what he had been saying and he was stuttering back that he had no idea what she was saying. She seemed to be doing it out of mischief and he was starting to get flustered. So I had told him that his Spanish was terrible. He scoffed at me, told me to try if I was so good at it but not before he asked me ‘what language is your first?’ When I had remembered that I spoke Spanish, was speaking Spanish, fluently...” Sergio’s face flushed a crimson red from embarrassment. “It brought us to tears and we just crumbled to the ground laughing at my stupidity. ‘I speak Spanish’ I had kept shouting. A man who was walking by with his daughter had even stopped to applaud my revelation. Maybe he was being sarcastic but who really cares? By the time we were finished we convinced some old woman to lead us out. We clung to her as if we were toddlers afraid of losing their mother. We had both worked up an appetite, so I decided to take him to Salamar. Yeah, that’s where we began.”

"So you really did forget that you spoke Spanish."

"Well, when I told him to talk to people, I hadn't thought that maybe I was more qualified to speak than he was, given his lack of knowledge of the Spanish language. I mean, he knew the basics but the kind of directions required to get out of there, those were far from basic."

Fernando nodded in understanding. “You took him to Salamar? You had said that Salamar was for you and the one you were in love with?” Fernando almost regretted the question. Why ask the questions you don’t want the answers to?

Sergio stared up at the ceiling again, searching for the right answers, the ones holding the truth within them. “I was in love with Cris when we had gone to Salamar, I guess. I had practically fallen for him instantly. You know how he had said that he felt like he could 'laugh with me' forever? In retrospect, I realized that I had felt the same way towards him.”

“Why didn’t you say anything to him then, Sergio? Or did you?”

“I didn’t want to be gay, Nando.” Fernando heard Sergio’s voice crack at the confession. More tears trickled down, passed his temples, crashing down to the floor. “I didn’t want the critical stares and the disapproving whispers. So I just ignored my feelings for him until they faded to nothing. I had hoped that, maybe if I had ignored my feelings for this man with as much conviction as I could muster then maybe... I don't know, killed my bisexuality? But that's not the way it works," he finished looking back at Fernando, "obviously."

Fernando couldn't agree more with the Spaniard. He, too, had thought ignoring his sexuality would just make it go away. “Had you known he loved you?”

Sergio let out an exasperated sigh. “No, I didn’t and even if he had told me before everything it wouldn’t have mattered. It would’ve came too late. You can’t fall in and out of love with someone with each passing minute. It’s in the same sense that you are either alive or dead, you can’t be both. If you reject your feelings long enough, Fernando, they start to die, they fade until one day they’re completely gone. Having made room for someone new.”

“Well, I don’t believe that. Otherwise, that confession of his wouldn’t be hurting you as much as it seems to be, Sergio. You deserved to be loved and to be told that you were loved by him.”

“No, no I didn’t, Nando.”

“Why did you kiss him then, Sergio? When did you…”

“Because I was selfish and, I don’t know. I don’t remember my reasoning for doing it but by the time I finished he knew. And I knew he would never be the same again.” Sergio’s voice had started to become distant, as if his mind was suddenly detached from his body. “I wasn’t thinking but I was. It was as if I was on autopilot, being controlled by both what I wanted to do and what I needed to do. I needed control but I guess deep down I wanted him. I needed to tell him everything but I needed to see how he felt about me, if he felt anything. I just… I don’t know why I did it… I’m sure I could have just, but I didn’t and now…”

“What did you do?” Fernando wanted to slap himself for the harsh tone in his voice as he threw the question at the Sevillan.

Sergio sat up quickly and turned towards Fernando, eyes burning through the freckled Spaniard, as if he was searching for something, anything. He felt a resurgence of a thousand emotions he thought dead: anger, betrayal, guilt, helplessness, blame, hate...

Fernando returned the gaze but was damn near frozen by the sudden dark hollows that had filled the eyes of the Sevillan. He didn’t know that man, the one sitting in front of him.

“Come on.” Sergio ordered, rising to his feet as he grabbed his keys off the coffee table and headed out of the front door.

* * *

“What are we doing here?” Fernando asked quietly as Sergio pulled up to the Ciudad and put the car in park.

Sergio didn’t respond though, he simply unclicked his seat belt and stepped out of the car.

Fernando quickly mirrored the action and followed the Sevillan until they reached the locked doors located on the side of the facility.

Sergio pulled out the paper clip, stretched it, snapped it in half, and inserted it into the keyhole. He moved it around and listened carefully for the ‘clicking’ sound that would indicate that they were in.

Fernando had never been there before, he had been to the Bernabeau when he had played for Atleti more than a few years back – but never at Real Madrid training complex. He looked around taking in the atmosphere. It certainly wasn’t the Bernabeau, large and extravagant, it was warm and homely. He felt Sergio grab his wrist as he was led to a door that had been padlocked and barred to prevent entry. Fernando was confused. Was this where Cris…?

“Sergio why are we here?”

“Because you drove me here in the first place. Besides, you wanted answers.” Sergio replied, halfway to psychosis, before pulling a brass key from his pocket. Sergio had stolen the little brass key out of Florentino’s office just before he and Iker had left from the Ciudad. At least something - good? - had come from the exchange with the President. Sergio pushed and held the door open, standing aside to allow Fernando to walk in, and locked the door as it closed. Sergio put the padlock down on a bench within the changing room and tenaciously walked towards the showers, turning on the shower located third from the right with intent.

“Sergio? Are you okay?” Fernando asked out of concern, unsure of what was going on. Did he really drag me here to take a shower? What the hell is he doing?

Sergio turned and smiled callously as he gently started shoving Fernando towards the bench. He spun Fernando around until Sergio was facing the older man's backside.

“Don’t you want to know what happened, what had gone on between Cris and I?” Sergio whispered into his ear.

Fernando’s eyes bulged in momentary. He had wanted to know but now he wasn’t so sure. Still, he found himself nodding, the action triggering Sergio to grab his shoulders and force his chest into the bench. He yelled in surprise and winced as his chest collided with the hard wood of the bench. He could see Sergio’s hands reaching under the bench, could feel them pulling ever so tightly on his wrists.

“I think it’ll be easier to show you than it will be to tell you, Nando” Sergio whispered maliciously into Fernando’s ear. He wasn’t going to kick him around like he had done to Cris – no – Sergio didn’t want any part of Fernando’s mind blacking out during this. He wanted Fernando to see what he had turned him into. He wanted Fernando to see the role that he had in Cris’ suicide. He wanted Fernando to feel what it was like to be used. He wanted Fernando to feel what it’s like to lose all control...


	19. The Secret's Out

“That was a pretty strong shot, I think you may have broken my hand!” Iker shook his hand in an attempt to get the blood flowing back into his hand as he found Ricky smiling at a distance. “I don’t remember you being able to get so much power from that distance, Ricky.”

Kaka shook his head at the Spanish keeper. “Oh Iker, that used to be nothing compared to what I used to be able to do. Then that damned injury happened and…but that’s in the past.” The two of them had been out there for the past hour with Kaka practicing his free kicks against Iker. They had both felt that they weren’t quite in ideal form and could use the extra practice to get in shape for the upcoming game. For Cris.

“Well, you seem to be getting back to your roots, man. What’s your secret?”

“I just had to find someone worth playing for,” he smiled back, casting his eyes to the heavens, just in case Cristiano was up there.

“I feel you on that one,” Iker responded, eyes cast down onto the damp pitch. “Well, I have to go. Perez wants me to write a letter of apology to Ms. Garza and drop it through her mail slot by morning,” he shouted, walking towards the Brazilian. “Its bullshit, in my opinion. She’s supposed to be trained for shit worse than that.”

Kaka let out a light chuckle and shook his head disapprovingly. “That doesn’t mean you have to throw shit her way any chance you get, Iker.”

“I know but still, she was being a bit ignorant. See you later, man!”

“Whatever helps to validate your sainthood, Iker. Later!”

Iker hastily made his way into the building and through the empty hallways, trying to think up an apology. He just didn’t feel right about it. He wasn’t sorry for starters and he wasn’t comfortable writing a letter that pretty much said “I didn’t mean it” when he meant every word he had said. If that wasn’t enough, he hadn’t really said anything worth apologizing over. He simply told the hag Cristiano’s reasoning behind his suicide was ‘none of her fucking business'. It was a fact, the ugly truth. Who gave a shit if it upset her? Besides, Sergio called her an ignorant quack. That’s a lot worse than mind your own. And is he writing a letter? Nope. Being captain sucks sometimes, he told himself as he kicked at an empty Gatorade bottle that had carelessly been thrown in the hallway.

Iker stopped in his thoughts as he heard noise coming from the locker room. No, he thought. No that can’t be. The locker room is padlocked and barred. Never to be opened again. Never. As Iker drew closer to the locker room the noise grew louder. Is someone sniffling in there? No, no. There can’t be anybody in…

Iker felt his heart freeze as he realized that the padlock had been removed from the door and that the bar had been lowered. His body grew stiff as his mind recalled the painful memories of the red locker room - all of the blood he saw, Cris crumbled in a corner - the walls bearing witness to all of Cristiano's suffering, that which motivated him to take his own life and his life leaving him.

He slowly pushed the door open, his stomach churning as he did, and peeked into the room. He saw the padlock sitting on one of the benches but that was all he saw. He heard the sniffling coming from near the showers but wasn’t so sure he wanted to venture into the red room to see who it was. Being captain sucks sometimes.

He forced his way into the room, delightfully surprised that he hadn't just combusted to flames. He peeked around the corner leading to the showers and saw Sergio, sitting on that damned bench cupping his face with his hands as his head hung in between his knees. He was wearing his street clothes and seemed perfectly normal, despite the fact that he was crying.

That’s strange, I hadn’t seen his car here. Kaka and I were the only one’s parked out in the lot. What the fuck is he doing in here?

“Sergio? What are you doing in here?”

“Go away, Iker.” Sergio’s voice was cracking with every other syllable. “Just fuck off.”

Iker walked up to Sergio and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s going to be okay, Sergio. Whatever it is, Sergio, it can’t be this,” he stopped as he looked around the locker room, “bad.”

“Don’t touch me, Iker. I’m poison.” Sergio’s voice pleaded with the elder Spaniard.

“You’re not poison, Sergio. Why would you say something like that?”

“I am poison. I hurt everyone around me. I can’t even blame it on luck. I do it. On purpose.”

“Who have you hurt, Sergio?” Iker’s voice went from concerned to warning. He hadn’t forgotten where they were. He hadn’t forgotten what had happened in this room. “Do you know who…?” His voice trailed as he wasn’t sure if Cris had confided in the Sevillan the day before he… the day before he had returned here. Maybe Sergio was in here for a different reason completely? Maybe he could still feel Cris’ presence in the room, found only where it was lost?

“Look, Sergio, you’re fine. You’re not poison, people just have to develop a tolerance for you.” Iker tried to soften his tone as he was well aware of Sergio’s ability to be a total light switch, how he was like a wounded animal when he felt threatened. Hell, earlier in both of their careers, there was even a joke about it while they were away on national duty – “he’s like a woman,” Xavi had said, “moody and temperamental when he’s on it [the pitch], sweet and caring off it – and Iker had truly thought Sergio needed to have it evaluated in the event it leaked off of the pitch. He had always done his best not to be a trigger.

“Then why do the people I hurt always seem to be the one’s closest to me?”

“What do you…?”

“You know Cris was in love with me?” Sergio interrupted Iker languorously.

Iker felt breathless as his throat constricted. He had only made love to Cristiano the night before he… He had only fallen for Cristiano the night before he killed himself. He knew that’s why he was holding on to Cris so tightly, so dearly. But now, now he felt like he was standing in the wind and as if it were blowing him away; as if something or someone told was telling him he was no more than a grain of sand in Cristiano’s “big picture”. “When did you find that out?”

Sergio thoughtlessly reached down to his pocket and produced the letter. “Only recently.”

Iker slowly reached out to take the letter from the Spaniard’s hand. Piece of Iker had tried to convince himself that Cristiano was using him as a means of comfort, something Iker wasn’t entirely opposed of, as he felt as if that would help him to better cope. He simply preferred the part of his mind that told him that Cristiano was starting to love him; that Iker was the reason for the sparks in Cris’ eyes he swore he saw that night. If that was true, though, then why would he tell Sergio he had been in love with him in his suicide letter?

“Sergio,” Iker read aloud, “Remember the first time we met…”

* * *

 

Fernando sat in Sergio’s driveway with the Porsche still running. He had cried until there were no tears left, so now he was just sitting, lost and confused. _You don’t want to be with someone like that, Fernando. You want to be with someone who… Who what? At least he was being honest. And besides, I had that coming. Nobody deserves to be treated like that. Oh, please. It's not like I've already forgotten about all the shit I've done? Like how I let Cesc watch me get fucked by Sergio from the closet because it was a fantasy of mine? Sure, I juggle Olalla and Sergio but do they know about that time I sucked off Del Bosque to…_ “I deserved it,” Fernando shouted aloud. His mind raced back to the events of a year ago that the little red douche on his shoulder had been talking about. _He raped me._ _I don’t deserve to be raped. So what if I like a captive audience? Cesc is the only person who knows about me and Sergio anyway. That thing with Del Bosque is minor, a blowjob for a start. No big deal._ “I’m a whore.” _Please, it was more than a blowjob. I’m a sick bastard. I’m repulsive._ “I am repulsive.”


	20. Você Não Vai Se Arrepender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Hey, Iker... " Cristiano murmured quietly after they had finished, more to himself than Iker, "...you give me purpose."_

“I loved you, Sergio. I was in love with you. You kissed me and for the first time since… you… for the first time I felt safe.” Iker’s eyes were already clouding over and, by the time he got to the admission, his vision had already been made blurry by the tears. It had stung to read those words. Hell, it still stung. His mind kept replaying them over and over again. I loved you. You kissed me… I loved you. “Here, Sergio. I can’t read anymore.”

Sergio haphazardly took the letter back from Iker before he was slammed with notion that he had nearly given himself away to Iker. He breathed a sigh of relief before looking up at the keeper, just to make sure he hadn’t read ahead of the words he’d vocalized. “Why is this affecting you so much?” He asked when he realized what the words were that Iker had become stuck on, grateful for the first time that they were there.

“Did you love him?” Iker asked a little too quickly, redirecting his attention to Sergio but his eyes, he knew his eyes were drilling holes into the Sevillan. He was built, had beautiful skin and the tattoos carved into it gave him certain edge… Of course Cristiano had fallen for someone like him. “I mean, like, outside of friendship. Did you ever close your eyes and smile because he was your last thought before you drifted off to sleep? Or have you ever had your entire day made because of something he said to you? Were you ever haunted by the thought that he may feel just as lonely as you do at times? Did you love him, Sergio?” He’s still not sure why he had asked the questions knowing that there really was no safe answer for Sergio.

“Honestly? No. I mean, I had at one point in time but…. “

“...but what? Was he too good for you? Did he not make you feel like enough shit? I don’t understand why the fuck he would tell someone like you that just before he died? You never appreciated him, could have never...”

“I had been in love with him! When we first met. But I was scared, I was so fucking scared: of being gay, of rejection… he didn’t even seem interested anyways. Damn it, Iker! Is it really so hard to imagine somebody being in love with me?”

“No, it’s just, it’s just that I loved him, Sergio. He was supposed to say that to me. Not you, me.” Iker choked back the tears. He had cried enough for ten lifetimes in just three weeks over Cristiano because he had loved was still in love with the memory of Cristiano. And now that memory was being tainted and that, that was simply unacceptable.

“…there are some things you just can’t control.” Sergio cringed at the words as he said them. He was sounding a lot like Fernando and he didn’t like it; his mind took him back to the Miami hotel bar as if it were yesterday.

“I had thought he felt the same way,” Iker responded absently as his mind willed him to return to that goofy, drunken grin Cris had worn just before 'they' happened. “I was sure of it, I felt it.”

“Oh my God, Iker,” Sergio responded sympathetically as soon as he caught on, forgetting for a few moments exactly why he was a shit life form. “You two fucked before he died, didn’t you?”

“WE DIDN’T FU…” Iker took a few deep exhales in an attempt to regain his composure. “We didn’t ‘fuck’, Sergio.” Iker responded biting his lips trying to hold back the newest batch of tears. “We, we made love. It was… and he was… I never thought he’d… Not after...”

Sergio pulled the keeper down to cradle him in his arms. It was odd as it was usually the other way around: Iker would always be the one to comfort Sergio after a loss, Iker would always be the one running around and catching tears, Iker was always the one with the warm words of advice. Of course, that was usually on the pitch and this, this was the hell they liked to call life.

“I’m fine, Sergio.” Iker tried to reason with the Sevillan to get him to loosen his hold on him. “Seriously, I knew there was a chance that…that...” _is it raining salt water?_ Iker looked up towards the ceiling and realized that it was his eyes that had started to leak, not the ceiling.

Iker and Sergio were so engulfed in their conversation, they hadn’t heard the door open.

“There was a chance that, what?” Sergio asked reprimanding Iker for his thoughts. “That he was using you? No, Iker. Cristiano isn’t…”

“Wasn’t.” Iker corrected the Sevillan, looking blankly at the defenders chin. “Cristiano wasn’t. Past tense. Not…”

“Well, he wasn’t the type of person to just use someone and toss them to the side. He wasn’t the type of person to break another person just to build himself up. Cristiano wasn’t…me.”

“Who did you use, Sergio? What poor, frail creature did you break?” Iker asked subconsciously as he studied the walls, inwardly cringing as they would always be red in his mind. He wondered where Cristiano was sitting when he left. He wondered what his last thought was, what his last word was. Had he smiled as he left, content with his decision, or was he afraid and second guessing himself? Was the last person who flashed across his mind himself or was it Sergio, was it his sister or his mother?

“Cris.”

Iker was so zoned into his thoughts he didn’t even hear Sergio respond as Sergio, in the same respect, was so in tuned to what he had just confessed that he didn’t even hear the door close. Whoever the hell said it was 'better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all' must’ve never been in love. Of that, Iker knew for a fact. Sure, he had only been with the person he swore was the one for just one night but that’s all it took to convince him that there was such a thing as true love outside of fairytales. Now he felt as if he was losing Cris all over again as he involuntarily began to press stamps of question marks all over their beautiful evening.

Iker closed his eyes and allowed the memory to flood his mind. The only memory he’d ever have that contained the proof of his love for Cristiano:

He could hear himself trying to ask Cristiano if what they were doing was truly okay, if it wasn’t too soon but Cristiano, Cristiano had assured him that it was what he wanted and he remembered the feeling of Cristiano’s soft lips pressed against his own immediately after, the taste of him as his tongue lapped over his own, the feeling of his hair beneath his fingertips, the soft sounds of Cristiano’s moans of contentment. He smiled as he remembered the two of them stumbling down the hallway, crashing to the ground more than once in a fit of giggles, before finally falling together into the clutches of soft sheets and plush comforters. He remembered asking Cristiano one last time if he was sure and… those lips. Oh those lips, he smiled at the memory. He would never forget those lips, those full, velvety lips. At times, he still felt them brushing against his tenderly.

> _“No, Cristiano. I want you on top. You need to be on top.”  
> _
> 
> _“If this is because of what happened then don’t…”_
> 
> _“No, this is about what’s happening. And you need to be on top.”_
> 
> _“What’s happening?” Cristiano asked as he devilishly looked up at Iker. “What are we doing Iker?”_
> 
> _“This.” Iker smiled as he pulled Cristiano out from where he had placed himself, just beneath Iker, and smoothly repositioned him in a more dominant position. He trailed his hands up and down the sides of the younger man, thumbs trailing the carved and chiseled torso of the bronzed man._ _He was so beautiful. Iker became mesmerized by the simple memory of that night. The mere apparition of Cris made Iker believe in God again, there must’ve been one. And He must’ve carved you himself and left the rest of mankind at the whim of the angels. The feeling of his lips against Portuguese lips. The sound of Portuguese curses and blessings being whispered into his ear. "Você não vai se arrepender, eu prometo". "Você nunca vai saber o valor desta."._
> 
> _Cristiano took charge and rediscovered all of the power he had thought he lost, all of the strength he swore was robbed of him, all of the passion and reasons to live seemed to fill his eyes. It wasn't rough but passionate. It wasn't raunchy but beautiful. It wasn't just one night, one thought, but a lifetime, a commitment ._
> 
> _"Hey, Iker... " Cristiano murmured quietly after they had finished, more to himself than Iker, "...you give me purpose."_
> 
> _Before he could respond though, Cristiano was already gently snoring._
> 
> _He just lay there, exhausted, cradling Cristiano in his arms. He listened to his steady rhythmic breathing as Cris eased into a deep slumber for the first time in three nights._

_That was because of me,_ Iker reminded himself. _Cristiano found himself in me. By getting lost in me, he found himself. Not in Sergio, in me. Who gives a fuck if he said he loved and was in love with Sergio? He was in love with me – I saw it, I felt it._

* * *

 

Sergio climbed out of Iker’s car, grateful the goalie hadn’t badgered him with a load of questions about his car which was, surprisingly in the carport. He looked around, scared that Fernando may come charging out of nowhere with a knife and breathed a sigh of relief as he realized that he was still alive. 

“Hey, thanks Iker,” Sergio said as he turned back to the car to close the door. “Give me a call if you need to talk about anything. Seriously, you can’t carry that shit on your own, Iker. You’d always been so concerned about saving and helping other people… Well, I’m here if you need to be saved.”

“Unless I’m in between the sticks trying to keep out Manchester United?” Iker laughed out as he smiled back at the Sevillan. "...and Sergio? Thanks. You know, for everything."

“Hey! That was Diego,” Sergio voiced while his mind reminded him that, in this time and in this moment, that’s exactly where Iker was. Betrayed by the very person who vowed to ward off incoming danger – scored against by the one closest to him. Sergio shuddered and tried to be rid of the thoughts. “Later, Iker!”  _...and I'm sorry I did this to you._

Sergio cautiously opened the door to his home, his senses suddenly slapped with the intoxicating scent of chopitos, and was surprised to find Fernando standing in front of the range, watching intensely as the little pieces of cuttlefish fried in the pan. He seemed relaxed enough to Sergio, calm, almost as if nothing had happened. That certainly wasn’t anything like Fernando. Sergio went to slowly back out of the door as Fernando’s head quickly spun, just catching him before he could reach the knob.

Fernando gave Sergio a small smile and turned back to the little pieces of fried squid.

“I know you have something to say, Fernando. Just say it. Nothing’s ever…”

“I deserved it.”

“…wait. What the fuck did you just say?”

Fernando simply shrugged his shoulders and reiterated the three words slowly. “I deserved it.” He was saying it as if he was just talking about the weather, undisturbed and casual. “…but what did he do to deserve it?” Fernando wrinkled his forehead in thought as he inquisitively restated the question. “What did he do? I’ve gone through everything I’ve done wrong and, yes, they’re all fucked up but… Cris? He was so… You guys were so close and I know you guys talked about real shit. So what did he do?”

“It wasn’t him.” Sergio stated quietly, head dropping to the floor. “Remember how I told you that I took out my frustration, when I felt as if I was losing all control in the real world I went out on the pitch and just took everything out on the ball? On the net? I would work on my ball control and just do that for hours just to feel in control of something.”

Fernando nodded urging Sergio to continue, the wrinkles between his brow deepening in thought with each passing moment.

“Well, after Olalla had called, I went looking for Cris. See if he wanted to do some free kicks. I checked everywhere and found him in the showers. I don’t know what took over me. I heard the shower running and…at first I just wanted to mess with him. I was just going to scare the crap out of him, make him slip, something. But then I saw him and, I don’t know…I felt possessed.”

“What the fuck is wrong with us, Sergio? We’re both shit people.”

“You’re not a shit person, Fernando. You’re just torn between your wife and the guy you had an affair with. Such is the life of the bisexual. You did nothing to… Don’t ever say that you deserved to be...”

“No, Sergio. I’ve done much worse than that. I mean, I’ve never ra… But I mean, still.” _Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Am I really…? Are we…? I told myself I’d never go there again but..._

“You, Nando? I mean, you’re brutally honest and can be a completely selfish dickwad but that’s not too bad.”

Fernando figuratively pulled the red card on the red douche and the white angel that so often sat on his shoulder warring for him - his attention, his actions - and sent them both off and on their way. They were out. Which left him there, simply out of his mind – no thoughts, no filter, no right and no wrong. “Back in Miami…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Você não vai se arrepender, eu prometo : You will not regret it, I promise
> 
> Você nunca vai saber o valor desta : You will never know the value of this.


	21. Pictures of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Iker tightly closed his eyes, forcing out the tears the memory had brought with it. If he had stayed with Cris, would Cris still be gone or would he still be here - with him? He wanted to yell at himself, disappointed by their final exchange. He forced his way into the house and glanced over to the bar where he found an apparition of Cris and his gorgeous, drunken grin seated waving stupidly in his direction. His eyes then fell upon the couch where a vision of Cris had his feet plopped up on the coffee table, holding a controller looking as if he were about to score the game winner. Iker slowly made his way through the otherwise empty home towards the bedroom, where the image of a sleeping Cris was tucked beneath the Egyptian cotton covers of the bed; time reversed and suddenly they were in the bed, becoming one...."_

He had been among the first to realize that Sergio wasn’t necessarily ‘straight’ as defined by society though he had never been one to put sexuality in a box. He was the first to see through all of the number four’s pretenses and falsity, the first to see Sergio for who he truly was. Naturally, he wasn't as easily deceived by this person, this spirit, that had been trying to pass itself off as Sergio lately as the rest of the team had been. He knew Sergio and that, the melancholic void, wasn't him.

He had noticed the detachment of Sergio’s mind from his body long before Cristiano’s death; he knew the death only brought it further into the light but acknowledged that it had always been there. He had seen Sergio struggle within himself, unable to cope with the things he could not control, and lose. He had seen Sergio lose his temper, his mind, himself. He had wanted to reach out to him but somehow was restricted by his own reservations and need for self-preservation.

He had watched as the elder man’s life began to spiral out of control. He had simply stood by and observed as the Sevillan returned from the national breaks, seeming to have left some

pieces of himself behind somewhere else – with someone else. He was never one to impose himself on somebody else’s life, never denying a man the right to choose how he lives his life, but sometimes it took a third person to show someone exactly how far they had strayed from their path.

> _I know you are no savior, that’s not what I ask of you_
> 
> _I know that I’m beyond a prayer, but I know I’m not past you_
> 
> _Yes, I am a difficult task for most, but a doleful challenge for you_
> 
> _Lost in the dark, tell me my friend, hold the light to guide me through?_

Had he not already figured out that there was something wrong with Sergio, he had definitely been certain then. Sergio wasn’t the type to ask anyone for help or advice, at least not when it came to personal matters. Anybody else would try to assure you that Sergio may have just needed a support system after Cristiano’s death – and maybe that was partially true – but he wasn’t anyone else. He’d always known Sergio was going to lose it in some way, he just never could’ve predicted Cris’ death (nobody could've), that it would become the catalyst to the Sevillan’s fall from sanity. Was it really though?

Beyond a prayer, though? That was the one piece he’d always been missing. How could anything somebody had done be beyond forgiveness, beyond understanding, beyond Allah, God, or whomever someone chose to believe in? He knew Sergio had crashed down from his plateau of normalcy, from his sanity... Had it been Cris’ death that had shoved him over the edge or was that an effect of the fall? ...the crash?

He had found the note earlier that day, been gifted it really, after their counseling session. He had watched as the Sevillan rip it out of his notebook during the second go around of written expression, he had watched as it crumbled in the powerful hands of the number four, he had watched as he had missed in an attempt to shoot it into the trash.

After reading the notes’ content, he had decided he needed mature advice in how to approach the older man about it. So, he had come here to talk to Iker about Sergio, to the Ciudad, to express his disquiet. Sure, Iker’s behavior was also disconcerting but he didn’t melt when Iker’s eyes fell on him; his heart didn’t race a few bpm’s faster in anticipation for what may be, what may never be. He hadn’t fallen for Iker and landed on the borders of stupidly and fervently in love. He didn’t melt at the slightest touch of Iker, he had never stayed up late at night in pure distress over Iker’s probable mental state. When he had arrived though, he had only ran into Kaka who had told him Iker had gone inside to write a letter of apology to their crisis counselor.

Upon entering the building, he had heard hushed sobs bouncing through the ghastly quiet air and off of the nearly bare walls of the Ciudad. They had been coming from the once sealed locker room.

> “I’m fine, Sergio. Seriously, I knew there was a chance that…that…”
> 
> He had heard the muffled whisper of – Iker? – come from within the restricted room. Unable to fight his curiosity, he gently pushed the door open.
> 
> “There was a chance that, what? That he was using you? No, Iker. Cristiano isn’t…”
> 
> “Wasn’t.”
> 
> _Wait_ , he had thought, _Iker had thought Cristiano may have been using him for what? What had gone on between Cris and Iker?_
> 
> “Well, he wasn’t the type of person who just uses somebody and tosses them aside. He wasn’t the type of person to break another just to build himself up. Cristiano wasn’t…me.”
> 
> “Who did you use, Sergio? What poor, frail creature did you break?”
> 
> He could tell Iker was detached from the present as the question fell upon the ears of the three of them. He knew Sergio’s answer would seem to fall on deaf ears so he held his breath and waited.
> 
> “Cris.”
> 
> _Sergio ‘used’ Cris? How? How did he break him? Is this why Sergio had felt accountable for Cris’ death? He had used him for something? But what?_

He didn’t believe it, though. Not that he felt as if Sergio was lying about his recently admitted indiscretion, he just knew that Sergio had lied about it being in his nature. He knew Sergio wasn’t that type of person. He knew Sergio wouldn’t just ‘use somebody and toss them aside’, that something had to have happened to Sergio for Sergio to have ‘used somebody’ - use Cris. He knew Sergio.

Mesut knew Sergio.

* * *

_I just can't escape_

_It's like you're here with me now_

_But the words you say_

_They always seem to fade out_

_Since you been away_

_I'm just a face in the crowd_

_Someday, Someday_

_I know you're coming back down_

Iker turned off the radio and diffidently walked up to the locked doors, he hadn’t been here since Cris had died. Even before he had the chance to open the door fully, a memory had snuck out of the widening crack and seeped deep into his cognizance. He had been on his way to the Head and Shoulder’s shoot and subconsciously ended up in Cristiano’s driveway. Why he had just walked in like he had owned the place was something he had attributed to his anxious nature. The sight of Cristiano sitting comfortably on the couch: dark Armani jeans, white D-Squared button up peeking out of a perfectly fitted black sweater. He looked good. Perfect.

> _“How are you feeling? Is your hangover dissipating yet?” He had heard his voice but had no idea how he had been able to form sentences as his mind had been transfixed on the man who had sat only mere feet away from where he stood._
> 
> _“It’s pretty much gone now, thanks to you. I really appreciated what you did…very nice.”_
> 
> _Iker had slightly blushed under the praise. “Yeah, I figured you never had to deal with one of them before so… Hey, it’s fine. Don’t be too hard on yourself. You were, and are, dealing with a lot. I mean look at you, and then look back just four days ago? You’re doing fantastic, Cris.”_
> 
> _Cristiano’s face had dropped and Iker hated seeing him look so humiliated. Especially as there had been no reason for him to be feeling in such a manner._
> 
> _“You should stay here, keep me company. I’m going crazy here by myself.”_

Iker tightly closed his eyes, forcing out the tears the memory had brought with it. If he had stayed with Cris, would Cris still be gone or would he still be here - with him? He wanted to yell at himself, disappointed by their final exchange. He forced his way into the house and glanced over to the bar where he found an apparition of Cris and his gorgeous, drunken grin seated waving stupidly in his direction. His eyes then fell upon the couch where a vision of Cris had his feet plopped up on the coffee table, holding a controller looking as if he were about to score the game winner. Iker slowly made his way through the otherwise empty home towards the bedroom, where the image of a sleeping Cris was tucked beneath the Egyptian cotton covers of the bed; time reversed and suddenly they were in the bed, becoming one...

Iker shook out all of the pictures his mind had stored in his memory banks as he sat on the edge of the bed, looking around and taking in what remnants of Cris Katia had left behind. It actually didn’t look like she had even come into the master bedroom of the house. He picked up a picture off of the nightstand; Cristiano was smiling in it, that one million dollar smile that lit up the whole room, arms wrapped around his mother in a seemingly tight embrace. Iker traced his thumb down the ink of Cristiano’s cheekbone’s and remembered the smooth feel of that caramel skin. He gently returned the photo to its original place but froze before his eyes had left the nightstand entirely. The top drawer of it had been left cracked open and Iker found himself pulling out a book.  _Cris had kept a journal?_

The first few pages seemed to be filled with things like ‘Journals are for bitches [insert doodle here]” and “Why the fuck do these things exist [insert doodle here]” and “I’m not telling this book shit [insert doodle here]”. As Iker kept turning the pages he realized that Cris had changed his mind about the book...

> _Fucking Journal, of whom I shall refer to as Ed from this moment on,_
> 
> _I don’t know how much longer I can do this._

Iker looked up at the date in the corner. August 10th, just six weeks before Cristiano had taken his own life.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Coming Back Down by Hollywood Undead


	22. Swan Songs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I was always told that life is made up of moments. That it’s these fleeting moments that will engrave themselves into who we are and who we are to become… It was beautiful, surreal. The things said. Those left unspoken. We communicated with more than our words. We communicated with more than our bodies. We were connected: emotionally, physically, mentally, and perhaps even spiritually."_

_10 August 2013_

_Fucking Journal, of whom I shall refer to as Ed from this moment on,_

_I don’t know how much longer I can do this. To just stand here and say nothing. How am I supposed to go any longer without just exploding and telling him everything? I don’t get how easily I can hide my sexuality, like I can just sweep it under the rug, but want to burst every time I’m around him. I just can’t hold it in anymore. I never could in the four years that I’ve been here but I’ve tried. But now I’m getting tired… Why has he always been so different?_

_He’s supportive: but pretty much all of my teammates are. I mean, I know it’s expected of him to choose me over Messi, he bleeds the white of Madrid, but it doesn’t take away the gratitude I feel for his persistence on the matter… Maybe it’s the small kisses he leaves on my neck? Maybe it’s the small touches and the smiles? Maybe it’s the way I could come home from a dinner with him and suddenly feel secure with the man in the mirror, the one hidden and locked away behind this devilishly good looking mask of mine? Maybe it’s the way he’s always made me feel as if I can talk to him, without worrying about judgment? I don’t have to worry about what to say or how to say it, it’s as if he truly understands me… Maybe that’s all in my head? Maybe I’ve loved him for so long, with nothing in return, that my mind has transformed every small gesture of kindness and assurance to a grandiose act of affinity._

_Why did I have to fall in love with him?_

_I mean, I remember the day I realized I loved him… rolling around on the pitch, laughing hysterically. I knew that I’d do anything he asked of me, I knew I’d be there for him no matter what. I remember looking into his eyes and..._

> _“I finally understood what true love meant... [love meant] that you care for another person's happiness more than your own, no matter how painful the choices you face might be.”_

_It had meant that I was going to have to push my feelings aside. I thought he had been straight, he was dating Pilar at the time so I was completely justified in my thoughts, Ed. A few weeks later, sitting in the restaurant talking about crap referees and a few questionable calls… He was so mad, so vocal about it, so… Sergio. I fell, I didn’t want to but I did. I couldn’t help it. No matter how many times I told myself I’d be content, I knew I never would be. But that was okay. Is okay. So what if I couldn’t sleep for a week, if my diet was a little off…? Sergio seemed happy and content right where he was, without me._

_I just don’t understand why it had to happen, why God insisted on tormenting me by dangling in front of me what he knew I could never have. Doesn’t he realize what he’s doing to me, to my self-esteem?_

> _“…if there's anything more important than my ego around, I want it caught and shot now.”_

_Maybe he’s just trying to keep me humble._

_Sergio and I talked, though, on our flight back from the US of A. Like REALLY talked. About some deep and meaningful shit… It felt as if it had been something we had done every day within the past four years. I even gave him advice about something other than hair product and skin moisturizers, something other than football. It was a genuine conversation. I can’t even remember the last time I had one of those with anyone other than Sergio. I mean, Pepe and I are always talking about home and his daughter. (I wish I had a kid to brag about and to be proud of. To just whip out a picture and say ‘that’s my menininho!’). Marcelo and I exchange a serious statement about once a month and Kaka… I can’t talk to him. I mean, I know he’s there and that we’re brothers but… I know he’d tell me that being anything other than heterosexual is a sin so I just feel guarded around him. But when I’m conversing with Sergio, just me with him, that all just fades out and my walls tend to go crumbling down, forming rubble out of the once seemingly impenetrable barrier. Though we were on a plane, it still felt as if we were sitting around in that restaurant bitching about refs and his red card all over again... thinking that was all I needed._

_Then, he revealed what he had wanted to talk to me about. He even said he was ‘in love’. With some guy. Some douche who really needed a fist to the face. I held on to the confession of his sexuality as tightly as I could, hoping that it wasn’t my mind casting out my hopes to fill the air. It wasn’t – thankfully._

_What the fuck does he know about being in love, though? Come to think of it, what the fuck do I know? I spend my spare time at gyms and am in love with the sound of the ball hitting the back of a net (just not ours – fucking Granada). I mean, I think I’d rather love somebody than be in love with them. I mean, if you can ‘fall in love with someone’ you can just as easily ‘fall out of love’ with them, right? I mean, when you fall in love with a person, you’re tumbling further down with each idea and impression they give you of themselves. Then, one day they break the paradigm and all of that noise is dead and gone. Kind of like Sirens of Greek mythology, dangerous and beautiful, alluring and appealing, captivating and enticing, up until it’s too late to get out – shipwreck, disaster. Loving someone, though, that shit lasts a lifetime. (Personally, I would rather have something that would last forever rather than for something of the moment)… Did he say that he loved him?_

_Or maybe I’m wrong, Ed. Maybe that’s what being ‘in love’ is all about. Spending your whole life with one person, finding new ways to impress them and show them you care. Going out of your_

_way to show them exactly why they chose you and vice versa. Maybe it’s those fleeting moments of being and falling ‘in love’ that makes life worth living in contrast to a mutual acceptance of one another? Maybe when we find our one, the one we love, we’re supposed to go everyday searching for new ways to make them fall ‘in love’ with us all over again? ...you can only be in love with someone you already love._

_ I get it now. Maybe? _

* * *

Iker closed his eyes tightly, until the pressure of his eyelids against them were painful. He wished he had the chance to make Cristiano fall in love with him. He wished he had read his name in the place of Sergio’s. Sure, he and Cristiano had only began evolving into something only four days prior to the younger man’s suicide but that didn’t keep him from envying Sergio.

* * *

_11 August 2013_

_E – motherfucking – D!_

_One week until the start of the season and I can’t fucking wait._

_I’m anxious, though. I keep hearing all of this shit about Bale and I still need to finish all of this shit with my contact. To be honest, it’s killing my vibe. The media is saying that he’s going to break the transfer record – mine. Seriously? I just want one person to tell me what remarkable thing he’s accomplished. If they can do that, then they can tell me how he’d done it better than me. Then he can have my record. Punk bitch. Where’s his Ballon d’Or? Where’s his EPL title? UCL title? Why would he be worth more than me…? I know it’s not his fault, it’s his agent and the club… but really?_

_You know, I used to feel loved here in Madrid. The first time I walked out into that stadium full of fans just screaming my name… Standing on the stage being presented before them. Then what? Nothing. Three seasons and what have I done? Helped win La Liga once, one Copa, one Spanish Cup and three semifinals... Now I just feel like a disappointment._

_ You know I had everything before I came to Madrid... I was the greatest when I came here, I was on the top. I think I still am but I just can’t seem to get it back, the title that is. I had friends outside of my country, people I could talk to when I felt a little homesick. I had Wayne. I had a club who loved and cared about me, where the revenue I brought in was merely a bonus. I was valued there, while they’re already looking for my replacement here. Am I really so easily replaced? Even the guys think that he’s worth it, worth more than me. _

* * *

Iker winced as he recalled his own statements about Bale. “The current squad is complete in every area but if a player like Bale comes along, he’ll be welcomed.” He hadn’t said anything wrong but he hadn’t said anything about the price being too high or irrational given that Bale hadn’t really done anything to prove himself. He hadn’t said “he’s going to have to come here and prove he is worth the price paid for him”. Sure, Bale had been great in the English Premiere League but he wasn’t even in contention for the Champion’s League, he’s never had to prove himself against the best players on the best teams. Even if he had competed with Tottenham in the Champions League, who of the English Premiere League had done great? They all went crashing out in the round of sixteen. The EPL is a dying league and everyone but England knows that. So what if Bale had some pretty amazing games in the EPL? Spain was about finesse and England was about physicality – Cristiano possessed both and that’s why he was so valuable – Spanish teams competed amongst the finest of Europe while the English teams withered under German and Spanish opposition. Bale hadn’t proven anything and hadn’t proven to be worth more than Cristiano nor had he proven himself worthy to even play alongside the legend. Why hadn’t he said anything?

* * *

_14 August 2013_

_Ed,_

_I feel like shit and I love it._

_I don’t think I’ve ever trained so hard in my life._

_Maybe it was the excitement for the new season?_

_ Maybe it was because Sergio had brought up his fuck buddy, Fernando? (Yeah, that good looking nine over at Chelsea). He sounded so hurt, so lost… still. I hate seeing like that. I just want what’s best for him, what will bring him the most content. I know having Fernando in his life would make him happy beyond belief and recognition. So what if I fell in love with him [again] on the plane, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want me to make him smile, Ed. He wants Fernando to do that. Hopefully, he snaps out of it before the start of the season. If not, Chelsea may have to find a new number nine… I just want him to go back to being the Sergio we all know and love. The Sergio I love. The Sergio I’ve been falling in love with, over and over again, within these past four years. If that includes buying out a contract and forcing Florentino to take him as part of my new deal, so be it… _

* * *

Oh, Cris. Iker was falling more and more in love with the man with each page. He didn’t even mind if it was Cris going on about someone else. It was the selflessness, the realness. Cristiano seemed to stop at nothing for the person he loved, knew no bounds.

I wonder if he could’ve ever felt that way about me. If he had? Iker sighed, wishing away all of the could-be and would-be’s.

* * *

_19 August 2013_

_E-D,_

_Start of the season last night and I couldn’t finish for shit. Maybe I didn’t pray hard enough before the start of the game? Maybe I messed up my prayer…_

_Hear me, oh gods of football…Bless me with the mesmerizing dribbling ability, the clinical_

_finishing, and the ability to execute precision crosses in the manner of the great Maradona. I beseech you, oh gods of football, bless me with the power, the physical strength, and insane pace that I may emulate the capacity to score goals as the great Pele. Bless me with the skill, intelligence, and completeness of Johann Cruyff, I pray. Bless me with the creativity of Zico and the adaptability of Beckenbauer and Di Stefano, the control of ZiZou, and the overall, goal scoring precision of Puskas. For all these things I pray, that I may actively serve you, oh god of football, in the temple that is the Bernabeau._

_In the name of Pele and Maradona I pray._

_ I think I forgot to mention Puskas in my prayer before heading on the pitch. That was the problem. Next time, Ed. Next time. _

* * *

Iker tried to fight the smile that had formed on his face. Blasphemous, Cris. Maybe he should’ve prayed to the gods of football. Maybe then he’d receive a nod for the start. _Fucking Diego._

* * *

_23 August 2013_

_ED,_

_ I feel so many emotions all at once, E.D. Sometimes I don’t know how it gets the best of me. I mean, we’ll be sitting there laughing like everything’s fine, then out of nowhere, he’ll remind me that he isn’t mine. He’ll just start to talk about Fernando like he’s some kind of god: flawless and perfect, like he’s forcing the façade. I know the truth, though, I know what Nando is: nothing more than a selfish child, hurting what shouldn’t be his. I don’t know why he stays in the situation, takes all the ache… He’s treated like nothing more than a fucking mistake. Why do I care E.D.? I mean it’s his life, not mine but I guess it hurts me so much to see his spirit dulling when I know I can make it shine. He told me today, that he slept with that dick, right after he was disrespected and treated like shit. Right after the fucker told him that he had no core, that he would never be in love with him and loved him like pie, no more. He said the morning after, Nando’s face held regret, as if he was just another one night stand to forget. I can’t handle the hurt I see in the man I love, inflicted by some worthless cunt undeserving of…such an amazing person, both inside and out. Why he loves him, ED, is something I can’t figure out. I mean, I know Sergio’s happiness is all that matters but when does this pursuit end? When his heart shatters? _

* * *

Iker bit his lip and looked back over the words. In truth, he had wondered the same thing. He had thought that Sergio had gotten over Fernando when they had spoken the day after he’d found… Sergio had told him that he was letting go of the things he couldn’t control, but he had saw Fernando at the store in Madrid, the day after he and Sergio had gotten back from Portugal. Lines formed on his forehead. He suddenly wondered how Fernando would take Cristiano’s admission of having been in love with Sergio, if that would wake him up and if Cris’ words would convey to him what a great person he had in Sergio.

Had. Cristiano had loved Sergio. That doesn’t mean he did when he passed.

* * *

_04 September 2013_

_ED,_

_It’s coming up on that time of the year again. I can’t believe it’s going to have been eight years since he’s ~~been gone~~ departed from us physically. I know he’s here with me, though, guiding me and watching over me. I just hope I’m not disappointing him… Do you think he’d be proud of me, the man I’ve become? The type of person who just sits by and watches as an opportunity of love slips through his fingers? Either way, have some shitty poetry, dad. I’m thinking of you._

> _Father I know you’re looking down, watching over me_
> 
> _Whispering to me through the winds,_
> 
> _I hope I’m making you proud, if not, please show me how,_
> 
> _In your memory I live, until I too, ascend_
> 
> _You are missed and you are still cherished, father_
> 
> _My mother still cries for you_
> 
> _I hate that you were taken, but I know you’re better off_
> 
> _So with a light heart we say adieu_
> 
> _I promise to speak with you often, promise to love you always_
> 
> _I promise to never forget_
> 
> _I will live for you, I will live loud and I will live long_
> 
> _ I will live with no regret. _

* * *

The tears trickled down again. Iker stopped trying to dry them a while ago, they seemed to be continuous and unending. If Cris had known he’d break those promises, Iker couldn’t help but wonder if he would have still made them?

* * *

_16 September 2013_

_ED,_

_~~I think I may have done something horrible.~~ I’m a terrible person. I couldn’t take it anymore, all of the hurt in his eyes. ~~All of the pain and suffering that fucker was putting him through. It wasn’t fair, how one sided it was. I simply levelled the playing field, right? No,~~ I definitely made it worse._

_Sergio was upset. I mean, he’s been depressed for a while now but I guess today he really missed Fernando. I had always thought it was a distance thing so I had asked how he and Fernando had been doing, thinking that maybe his amplified depressive state was due to a conversation he may have had with Fernando. He stated to me that hadn’t talked to Fernando in a month. A month! Naturally, I had asked him why because that’s simply absurd. He told me that Fernando hadn’t called him at all since the incident in Miami. So I had asked him why he hadn’t called Fernando instead of waiting on Fernando to do it. You know what he said, E.D.? That he couldn’t call Fernando and that Fernando had forbade him from calling about a year ago because Olalla was starting to get suspicious._

_ It isn’t fair for either Sergio or Olalla. It isn’t right for one person to be exerting so much control over ~~my~~ Sergio. I wasn’t going to stand idly by and watch the prick play puppet master. Two people’s emotions are invested in one guy and he just… I get so frustrated E.D. Married and in the closet bisexual? I get that. But degrading a person to the point where they’re forbidden from initiating contact? That shit gets to me E.D. and I’m a direct person. If something bothers me I deal with it, one way or another. If someone has too much power (which I felt as if Fernando did), you undermine it. How? Through those closest to him. Besides, Olalla seemed grateful. I ~~don’t even~~ think she knew it was me. _

* * *

 

“Cris…?” Iker whispered aloud as he read the confession. “You called…? And then he… And then she… Oh.” _So that’s how Olalla had found out._ Iker had been wondering how she had found out about Sergio and Fernando: they had been extremely discreet. An affair with a national teammate while on national duty, a team led by himself, a team captained by himself, and he hadn’t even known until three years later and only after he was told directly by Sergio. AFTER Olalla ‘discovered’ it, though she didn’t really pay attention to Fernando’s career. Yeah, it was making more sense now. Iker looked down at the journal and froze again. The nineteenth of September? But that was after… Cris kept up with this thing after he was…?

* * *

 

_19 September 2013_

_There’s a stranger in my house. Iker told me that he was nothing to worry about, he told me everything was going to be okay. That the man I kept seeing wasn’t going to hurt me… Iker doesn’t understand. I’m not afraid of the man. I’m afraid for the man. He’s looking back at me every time I spare him a passing glance and I hate it. I tried to tell Iker that I detested that man, that I wanted him out of this fucking house immediately…It is my house after all. Iker told me that the man wasn’t going anywhere, that he and I were going to get along – again. As if I was supposed to know who the fuck was looking back at me. I detest that fucking man._

_But Iker said he was okay and if Iker says…_

_ I can’t take it anymore. I’m going to shatter him on the floor, break him to bits. I’m never going to have to see his fucking face again. _

* * *

Iker heaved a sigh as he recalled coming back to Cris’, after leaving to grab some takeout, to find the floor littered with the glass shards of Cristiano’s mirrors. It took him hours to pick up all of the fragments. In retrospect, he was simply trying to pick up Cristiano, trying to gather and collect the younger man. He had tried to get Cristiano to help him pick up the shattered remnants [of his life] but Cristiano had refused to have anything to do with the pain inflicting pieces [the pieces he saw himself in]…

Iker looked over to the next page, his heart hitching at the date. The morning after they… the same day he…

* * *

_21 September 2013_

_I was always told that life is made up of moments. That it’s these fleeting moments that will engrave themselves into who we are and who we are to become… It was beautiful, surreal. The things said. Those left unspoken. We communicated with more than our words. We communicated with more than our bodies. We were connected: emotionally, physically, mentally, and perhaps even spiritually._

_When I had ‘connected’ with Sergio I had thought it was the superlative of all emotions. I thought wrong._

_Iker found me, crumbled and broken in a corner. He took care of me, he held me. He was kind. He was never quick to anger though I gave him plenty to be upset about: inflicting my burden on him and him alone, my many setbacks, my sudden craving for alcohol…he was patient with me, though. He let me work things out in my own way, never rushed me, never made me feel pressured to tell him something, though when I did, he listened calmly and without complaint. When Iker first touched me, he didn’t touch my body. He didn’t even use his hands nor did he use his words. He touched my heart, by being there for me, listening to me, comforting me. He didn’t ask for anything in return, he wasn’t judgmental, he didn’t try to fill the voids with petty conversation, and he didn’t force me to say anything I wasn’t comfortable with. He was purely there. For me. With me._

_I realize now that that’s what love is. It’s not constantly whispering words of support but glances and moments lending assurance for better times. Love is not an uncontrollable impulse, a fast unpredictable roller coaster ride, rather it’s soft and patient, slowly evolving. It’s pure, uncorrupted, no cracks within it for doubt. Love is sure._

_ Iker loves me, of that I’m sure. I can see it, feel it. I think I love him, too. _

* * *

 

Tears poured from Iker’s eyes. That was all he needed to read, all he ever needed to see. To know that Cristiano had felt it, despite it being left unsaid. Iker turned to the next page. Finding it blank, he slowly began to write a quote he was sure Cristiano would have appreciated:

> _Life's all about moments of impact and how they can change our lives forever…the moment of impact attests to the potential for change and may have ripples of effects far beyond what we could ever predict. [These moments of impact] send some particles crashing together, making them closer than ever before, while sending others spinning off into great ventures, landing them where you would have never thought to have found them. That's the thing about moments like these. You can't, no matter how hard you try, control how you’re going to be affected by it. You just have to let the colliding parts go where they may…and wait for the next collision._

When Iker had finished inserting the quote, he went to close the book to return it to its rightful place in the nightstand. He caught sight of more words towards the end of the book, scribbled across a random page.

* * *

 

> _This is my last and final goodbye,_
> 
> _Please, my love, try not to cry._
> 
> _I knew you'd come here looking for closure_
> 
> _I have to say these before I go_
> 
> _I love you, three words you needed to know_
> 
> _I pray these words draw you closer_
> 
> _Damned to forever drown in this memory._
> 
> _I refused to take you and pull you down with me_
> 
> _The other suffers of this you may rest assured._
> 
> _Live your life, my love, live it for me_
> 
> _Go and all I ask is 'cherish our memory'_
> 
> _It is time, my love, for you to close the door._

_21 September_

_ Betrayed. That’s how he made me feel… _

* * *

 

Iker stopped as he realized that he was about to find out what had happened, what went wrong. Where Cris’ mind had went just before he drove over to the Ciudad, searching for his lost spirit, going as far as the depths of hell and the heights of heaven searching for it. He stopped. Because just for this moment, at least for the rest of the day, he simply wanted to remember the three words: I love him.

He placed the journal in his bag, vowing to read the final entry another day.

* * *

 

Mesut was pacing in his living room, trying to figure out what to do. What he should do, if anything. He wanted to help, though Sergio hadn’t asked for it – but Sergio had never been the type to ask for help anyway. Sergio was blaming himself for what had happened with Cristiano, for Cris’ sudden implosion and eventual suicide. Mesut wasn’t in a position to say if it was or wasn’t the Sevillan’s fault but he knew that what had happened, whatever it was, had happened in the past and that’s where it needed to stay. Besides, if Sergio was really as guilt-ridden as he sounded, Mesut knew there would be a bigger problem than Sergio’s feelings – Sergio’s eventual inability to feel, eternal numbness. He had already lost Cristiano, he’d be damned if he lost Sergio, too.

Mesut glanced over towards his phone and quickly decided to call Sami. He’d know what to do, he always seemed to.

“…hello.” A sleepy Sami answered the phone, groaning slightly in discontent. 

Mesut glanced over to the clock. _Oh fuck_ , he thought as he realized it was already 2300. “Sorry, Sami. I hadn’t realized it was so late. I’ll just talk to you later then?”

“No. You talk to me now, fucker. You’ve already woken me so you might as well. Besides, it must be pretty serious if it’s keeping you up. What’s going on, Mes?”

He didn't even ask how Sami knew it was him and smiled to himself. “Uh, well... You know how Sergio’s been acting…” Mesut didn’t want to be too direct but didn’t want there to be any wavering in his voice. Sami could read his voice fluctuations like a book and would immediately ask why Mesut was so concerned with Sergio if he picked up an excessive amount of worry.

“Weird as fuck." Sami finished for the smaller German. "I was thinking about that earlier. You know there were some studies done and big life changes, like divorces and break-ups, losing somebody, can trigger all types of these mental disorders...”

“You already talked to Ms. Garza about it didn’t you?” Mesut knew that Sami would choose ignorance over research; he had to have found all of that out from their counselor.

“Yeah and you know what she told me, Mes? She said that Iker and Sergio are probably not going to recover anytime soon. She said that she felt as if they knew exactly what happened with Cris.”

“Yeah, I think they do, too, Sami. I actually wanted to talk to Sergio about it. I don't mean to gossip but I heard him talking to Iker in the locker room…”

“...THE locker room?”

Mesut could picture Sami's wide eyes, him sitting up alertly in bed at the mentioning of the now forbidden locker room. “The locker room. They were talking and Sergio said something off, something about Cristiano. I don’t think Iker heard it, Iker had sounded pretty distant when he was talking. I don’t know if I should, though. I mean, I wasn’t supposed to hear it.”

“If you think it will help Sergio, you should. Just, just be understanding. Go over there. Like now." Sami sighed before he fell back into bed. "You know he doesn’t sleep any more. I’m going to bed. Just text me: ‘well’ if things go okay or ‘help’ if he tries to kill you. That way I know.”

“Thanks Sami. Go to bed, brother.”

Mesut grabbed his keys and walked out the door, rehearsing all the different ways he could possible try to get through to Sergio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes By (Respectively):
> 
> Nicholas Sparks, Dear John
> 
> Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
> 
> Kim and Krickett Carpenter, The Vow


	23. Tell Me...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Shut up, Sergio. I’m not finished.” Mesut knew Sergio would interrupt him, try to shut down any possible insight on what may be wrong with him. It was a defense mechanism, a way of keeping people out. Mesut had succumbed to it one too many times before and had mentally prepared himself for the assertion this confrontation would require of him. “I heard you and Iker talking in the locker room at the Ciudad.”_

“Back in Miami…” Fernando took a deep breath, preparing himself for what he was about to say. He had sworn he’d never tell a soul about what he’d done:

> The media had said he’d be on his way out for sure but when he got there, he simply told him that he was going to get the best out of him, that he was going to adapt the team around him. They had expected him to be more physical, he had expected them to be more clinical. He had disappointed many people and he had known that. He hadn’t been able to adjust the way that they would’ve liked but it was okay because he was there now and he was going to make sure his days of floating aimlessly around the box were over; he had signed Marco van Ginkel for him to deliver the perfect over the top passes for him. Then he told him that he’d have to earn his place on the starting eleven, that he wasn’t ‘untouchable’...

“You don’t have to say anything, Fernando.

“No, Sergio. I do. Back in Miami when I was upset at the bar…” The memory of the smug grin and the callused hands sent shivers down his spine. “I wasn’t pissed off because of missed opportunities in the second half of that damned ICC final, I wasn’t pissed because you kept preventing my shots on goal, I was pissed because he…”

Sergio was confused, completely lost on where this was going but he didn’t really care. He loved Fernando and he had hurt him, anything Fernando had done would be forgiven either way so he’d decided that he’d rather not know. “Fernando, I told you, you don’t have to explain. I mean I get it, Mou used to drop a lot…”

“It wasn’t about getting dropped from the starting eleven at the last minute, Sergio! He lied to me. He told me that we’d…!”

Whatever confession may have been released into the air had been suppressed by the Sevillan’s full lips. Sergio didn’t want to hear anymore, couldn’t hear anymore. He loved him…

> _…does love him, everything about him. [His] laugh, his smile…those cute freckles that were scattered along his cheek bones…the way [he] said his name, the way his mouth formed around each letter. He loved the way that he would crinkle his nose and purse his lips as he was processing new information. He loved them together; how [he] made him feel and how he could make [him] feel… [He] made him strive to be a better version of himself._

He was quick to realize that he had just put himself at risk for losing all of that with one impulsive, thoughtless action – three years laid to waste. He needed to reassure Fernando that he did love him, despite what he had done. He couldn’t even fight with Cris’ voice in his head echoing the very sentiment of wisdom offered to him after Fernando had mistreated him: ‘A person who loves you and cares for you would never [do] something like that…’ He needed Fernando to know that he had realized he made a mistake, immediately after making it. He needed Fernando to know that he still loved him – despite the pie, despite the little voice in the back of his head screaming at him, telling him Fernando was only there because Olalla had allowed him to be.

Fernando submerged himself into the kiss, allowing his racing thoughts to drown out if only for a little while. He allowed his mind to dance around the idea of it finally being just him and Sergio, Sergio and him… The haughty smirk ghosted his thoughts again, turning Sergio’s soft hands and gentle touches into lax and abrasive clutches, the Sevillan’s soft pouting lips transformed to thin firm lines, while his sweet smelling cologne turned to a heavy musk. The kitchen faded into an office and the smell of burning chopitos ascended to his nostrils smelling of paper and dry erase markers. A shudder unleashed itself through Fernando. Was it guilt? Was it pleasure? Was it remorse? Was it nostalgia?

Sergio felt the shudder and took it as a sign to up the ante. He softly whispered promises of unrelenting love, of a passionate fusion that nothing would ever come between just before he sensitively caressed the freckled neck of the older man with his lips.

Fernando moaned as the delicate words mutated to threats of punishment and coercions of lust before reaching his ears; the younger man’s touches turned into the ravenous assaults of the older man. “Oh, Jose..”

Sergio immediately stopped, his mind coming to a sudden, involuntary halt.

“What did you…?”

The knock at the door prevented Sergio from finishing his question. He hurriedly looked at the clock before sending Fernando a scowl of caution, making his way to the door. He wanted to ignore it, figure out what the fuck just happened… but the fact that all of his blinds had been rolled up allowed anyone to look in and see him standing there – with Fernando. Sergio flung the door open.

“Mesut?”

“Hey, Sergio I know it’s late, but, uh...” The German was standing there, one hand on his hip and the other running through his hair. He looked troubled.

“Is something wrong?” Sergio had opted for that reply rather than resorting to his quickly developed ‘you know Iker is the captain, I am but the humble co-captain’ response.

“Yeah, I guess, but you seem…” Mesut looked over Sergio’s shoulder to see Fernando standing in the kitchen, appearing to be – relieved?

“No, no.” Fernando hastily responded, hurriedly grabbing his jacket and the keys for his rental out in the drive. “I was just about to head home as it was getting late.”

So Fernando was the one carrying around that missing piece of Sergio. Makes sense. “You’re going back to England at this time?” Mesut glanced down to his wrist watch. He was a lot of things – impressionable, somewhat naïve, trusting… stupid was nowhere near that list.

“I meant back to my hotel room.” Fernando blushed, looking down at his feet. Hell, he looked anywhere other than Sergio’s general vicinity.

“Why would you have a hotel room when you two are...? Never mind. Not my business. Good night, Fernando.”

Sergio’s eyebrows shot up and Fernando went crimson red. Had they been so obvious?

Fernando quickly slipped past Mesut, avoiding any and all eye contact. He quickly yet gently

closed the door, grateful for the distraction. His flight back to England was due to leave the afternoon of the next day and he knew Sergio could use the time to cool off before they dove into that conversation. Hell, he should probably give him more time than twelve hours. Next time, he decided, hopping into the Land Rover.

“So what’s troubling you, Mesut?” Sergio sighed, exhausted and not really wanting to play the confidant right now. He had his own problems, massive problems. He fucked up more times than he could count and now he didn’t know what was going to happen between him and Fernando.

“You are.” The German answered truthfully, bluntly. “Look, Sergio, I’m going to be honest. I noticed you were acting really strange when we all came back from Miami and now I can see why…”

“Mesut, that’s…”

Mesut held up his hand to silence the Sevillan. “And then, out of nowhere, it’s like you started shitting butterflies and everything was great again. Then, a few days later, Cristiano goes and… You know.” Mesut still couldn’t wrap his head around it. He had never been one to speak on what he himself couldn’t understand, hence, he could barely even get the word ‘suicide’ and its meaning through his mind, forget about getting it out of his mouth. “And suddenly, it’s like you died with him.”

“Mesut, I…”

“Shut up, Sergio. I’m not finished.” Mesut knew Sergio would interrupt him, try to shut down any possible insight on what may be wrong with him. It was a defense mechanism, a way of keeping people out. Mesut had succumbed to it one too many times before and had mentally prepared himself for the assertion this confrontation would require of him. “I heard you and Iker talking in the locker room at the Ciudad.”

Sergio became immobilized as panic overcame him.

“I know about Iker and Cristiano. I can understand why he’s taking all of this so hard.” Mesut allowed his voice to soften as he looked down, suddenly intrigued by his thumbnail. “I just don’t understand what happened between you and Cristiano. You said you used him…? And I’m concerned. For you? I just need to know that you’re going to be okay. I need you…” Mesut wanted to leave it there, but the closing of the interaction he had just barely missed told him otherwise, “to tell me that you’re going to be okay and that you’re going to come out of this. I’ve already lost one of my teammates and I can’t lose another one. You don’t have to tell me what happened. You don’t have to tell me why you feel so responsible for everything that had happened with Cristiano. You just have to tell me that you’re going to be okay.”

Sergio stared down at his feet, at the ground, down to where he presumed hell was, down to where he was sure to be damned. He couldn’t look up, he didn’t deserve to.

“Sami texted me an article Ms. Garza had showed him.”

Sergio flinched and it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Oh, no. I didn’t tell either of them about what I had heard. Sami had, well, he had just noticed your behavior, as I had, before Cristiano had did what he did and after. I had actually gone back to the Ciudad to talk to Iker about you, I was worried already, and that’s when I heard you guys talking. I mean, I didn’t mean to pry but you both sounded so…” Mesut searched for Sergio’s face that was still hung down, eyes glued to the floor. “Anyways, there’s a lot of shit in it about these mental disorders. Like, you can go off spontaneously into these things they call ‘manias’ or some shit like that. They said that’s the way it usually is, random, but sometimes there may be particular "triggers" can provoke them, like stressful shit going on, serious illnesses, traumatic events...” Mesut searched for Sergio’s eyes again, once again to no avail. “Look, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with you, I mean we all have our own ways of dealing with shit…” Mesut’s voice cracked. _Damn Cris. Why the fuck was he about to cry over Cristiano now, of all times?_ “…but you can’t tell yourself it’s your fault, Sergio.”

“But it is my fault, Mesut.” Sergio looked up and into the German’s big round eyes for the first time since he had opened the door. He needed to tell somebody, somebody who wouldn’t be biased – somebody who wouldn’t be so wrapped up in their personal grief to miss it completely, somebody who wasn’t trying to right a few wrongs – “Coffee? This may take a while….” He needed to be judged. He needed to be hated. He needed to be vocally condemned to the darkest parts of hell.

* * *

 

_**SMS from Ms. Garza to Iker:** _

**_Your Prompt for This Afternoon's Session -_ **

_If somebody told you moving on would be easy, tell me, would you call them a liar?_

_If somebody told you “you can only fly so high”, tell me, would you fly even higher?_

_If somebody told you, “no this can’t be fixed”, tell me, would you have left it shattered?_

_If somebody told you that he never loved you too, tell me, would it have ever mattered?_

 

> _If somebody told me moving on would be easy, I’d simply ask them where they’ve moved on from._
> 
> _Ask them if they’ve ever lost something so valuable that the only thing left in its wake is ‘numb’_
> 
> _Numbed feelings, anesthetized promises, nothing ever becoming what it should’ve been_
> 
> _Ask them if they’ve spent many countless nights distraught over the what could’ve been’s_
> 
>  
> 
> _If somebody told me I could only fly so high, I’d laugh because they wouldn’t know me at all_
> 
> _I’d soar as high as I could and I’d fly higher still, fearless, assured someone would catch my fall_
> 
> _I’d flutter high enough within the heavens if only to catch a glimpse of his face just one more time_
> 
> _No, these people don’t know me at all, I am the only person who can set these limits of mine._
> 
>  
> 
> _If somebody told me that this couldn’t be fixed, I’d ask them to step aside, tools tightly gripped in hand_
> 
> _I would’ve found the problem, picked up the pieces, and restored it until heaven and hell it’d_
> 
> _withstand_
> 
> _What is broken to me may not be broken to you and vice versa it’s all about finding the right perspective_
> 
> _Anything and everything, he, could have been helped and fixed, I merely had to have faith in the collective_
> 
>  
> 
> _If somebody had told me he had never returned my love, I would have them committed within the hour_
> 
> _Of his love I’m sure, found within his very words and actions, damned they’d be to try, they don’t have that power_
> 
> _Only he alone could tell me, only he alone could take that from me, not anyone’s thoughts on it matter_
> 
> _ Those three words will carry me to heaven, carry me through hell, proven to do just that with the latter. _

* * *

 

Iker looked down at his book thinking that his ‘Journey to Closure’ didn’t have shit to do with the damn book that quack of a therapist gave him. It had everything to do with the one Cristiano had gifted him. He looked over at his bag, smiling in remembrance. I love him. And he loved me, too. He groaned to himself as he pulled a sheet of paper out of his desk and started to write:

_Ms. Garza,_

_ On behalf of myself and Sergio, I would like to extend my deepest apologies… _

* * *

 

**_SMS from Ms. Garza to Kaka:_ **

**_Your Prompt for This Afternoon's Session -_ **

_Where did your faith die, tell me, when did it go?_

_When did you lose yourself, tell me, or do you not know?_

_It died on 21 September at the locker rooms in Ciudad,_

_ And I know exactly where I am - found. _

* * *

 

Kaka looked down at his scribbled response, barely legible within his book. He shrugged it off in his inebriated state, satisfied enough, and took another swing of his wine, tears sneaking out of his eyelids. It was his book. And it was a Tuesday, the day Cristiano would come over to eat with himself and Caroline but would insist on sitting at the kids’ end of the table. It was no secret to Kaka that Cristiano had wanted children, a family. Now what did Cristiano have? Sure there was a possibility he was looking down on him from a place filled with heavenly riches but Kaka needed more than a ‘maybe’… Either way, he fucking hated Tuesdays.

* * *

 

 


	24. ...because I care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Because he cared. Mesut dialed that number and called her. Because he loved him."_

_**"An object at rest stays at rest and an object in motion stays in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unequal force."** _

* * *

The water that had been dripping from the faucet seemed to suddenly start crashing down into the sink basin, the sounds of the drop going suddenly from imperceptible to thunderous echoes off the walls of the intensely quiet home. A fly buzzed around the room, its usual darting form seeming to carelessly and simply float from one target area to the next; had he been sitting any closer to it he was sure he’d be able to distinctly make out its wings fluttering – the whole world seemed to be moving in slow motion.

He didn’t want to move, though he was fairly certain he couldn’t have even if he had wanted to. He looked up into those almond eyes, searching – for answers, for clarity, for any sign of faltering, anything that would tell him this was all some sickening nightmare – only to find repentance and signs of a bittersweet relief of burden.

Mesut had started questioning himself, trying to figure out why the hell he came here. He knew he shouldn’t have, what was he expecting? Was Sergio supposed to say, “Oh, you see Mesut, I just used Cristiano to improve my English”? He hadn’t ever expected anything of this magnitude, though. No way. Raping the person you confided in, betraying the trust of someone you regarded as a friend?

Mesut shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his muscles felt heavy under the newfound knowledge while his mind just kept replaying the words over and over again:

> _“I raped him, Mesut.” Sergio rushed out the confession, stumbling on the word rape. "I raped Cristiano. He was supposed to be my friend. And I betrayed him. In the locker room. The same room he killed himself in four days later. Right after I told him it was me who slammed him up on the bench…”_

After drawing a blank for several minutes, he finally formed his thoughts around one focal point, one word: Why? That was the only question, the only thing that had come to Mesut’s mind. Why had he done it? It wasn’t as if the answer held some sort of justification, Mesut acknowledged and accepted that but he needed to understand. Maybe Sami had been right?

Was it all instinctive, a result of which instincts of Sergio’s had matured fully and which ones were suppressed and left untouched forever – had Sergio developed an animalistic instinct towards sex to such a high level that all of his other, more defensive, feelings just suddenly stopped bridling his urges? Was he extremely depressed or having a problem mentally? Was it because he had felt powerless and merely wanted to exercise dominance over Cris? What had Sergio been thinking?

Mesut glanced away from his feet and towards the sounds of the water dripping and the insect’s buzzing. The droplets suddenly seemed to start falling faster as the fly seemed to resume its normal pace – the world had suddenly started whirring around him again. The German looked over at the Sevillan’s feet, searching for his voice, finding it somewhere. Sure it had been weak and barely audible but it was enough to capture the Spaniard’s attention. “Why did you do it?”

Sergio jumped as the words escaped past Mesut’s lips. He was simply surprised a knife hadn’t been shoved through him yet. “I ju-I just. I guess, I felt so helpless with everything between Fernando and myself and I just snapped. I mean…”

“Walk me through it, that day.”

“What?”

“Your mindset. Walk me through it. What you were thinking.”

Mesut stood up from the dining room table and walked out to the living room, snatching Sergio’s phone up off of the coffee table. He was going to do whatever the hell it took to get a little bit of honesty out of the Sevillan. “Do you still have the voicemail? The one from Olalla?” As Sergio nodded, Mesut slid his finger over the voicemail icon and found the one from the seventeenth of September.

Sergio closed his eyes as Olalla’s angry voice filled the room.

> “Sergio! It’s Olalla. I know what you’ve been doing with my husband, to my husband. You better not ever fucking talk to him again. You can’t just guilt trip someone into fucking you, you nasty fucking home wrecker. Who the fuck do you think you are? You think that fucking club would really support a gay athlete. Keep this shit up and we’ll find out!”

He let out an audible sigh, “I was so pissed. Angry. I couldn’t believe that she had said that I was the one who had used guilt to get Fernando to fall into bed with me. It was the other way around.” Sergio’s voice started to escalate as the memory breathed new life into his feelings of hatred and helplessness. “I didn’t feel as if I had any control over anything Fernando had been calling the shots, Fernando had initiated everything, and Fernando threw me to the wolves. I just couldn’t take it anymore. I needed control over something and then… Then I saw Cris’ car in the parking lot.”

Mesut stepped away from the Sevillan as his voice dropped to an eerie whisper. He sounded as if he had been one of Cristiano’s infatuated fans as he spoke about Cris.

“He was always there, always so reliable.” Sergio reached out his hands with his eyes still closed, fingering at the air as if he was rubbing the side of someone’s face – Cris’ face. “I had just wanted to shoot a couple of free kicks from the twenty-five, work a little bit on some ball control. Take control on the pitch because I failed at having it anywhere else within my life. He always seemed to give me control. He wasn’t on the pitch, though. He had already gone to the showers. I was just going to scare him, that was all I had intended on doing in there...”

Sergio let out a light chuckle and a faint smirk appeared. Mesut drew in more air sharply. This was it. Sergio was reliving it and he didn’t look nearly as remorseful as he had when he was simply telling Mesut, in vague detail, what had occurred. Hell, he seemed as if he’d do it all over again if he had the chance. Mesut shuddered as a knot took form in his stomach and another in his throat.

“Then I saw him standing there. Beautiful, just… He seemed to have been carved by the very hand of God himself. He was washing his body and the steam just surrounded him like a cloud, it was intoxicating. I had never seen him so relaxed but you could still see the definition of his muscles throughout his body – so strong, masculine. But I made sure he knew who was stronger…”

Mesut couldn’t ignore the sadistic tone that had seemed to override Sergio’s recollection of that day, each word had seemed to drip of lust and want. There was no regret in there as there had been only moments ago. Mesut dared himself to look at the face of the Sevillan. Sergio looked as if he would climax at the mere thought of that day: his eyes were closed, he was biting his bottom lip, and he looked – sick.

“I grabbed him by the neck – his whole body tensed – and threw him against the wall of the showers. His blood covered my hands as I shoved him down to the floor. There’s something about seeing the strong fall, seeing them go from power to sudden weakness and vulnerability. It was beautiful, poetic, almost like watching a fully bloomed gladiolus fall, pedal by pedal.”

Sergio took in a lungful of air and exhaled, seemingly enamored by the memory; captivated by it all to the extent that he had as of yet to open his eyes. They had been closed since the commencement of the recollection.

Mesut positioned himself close to the door. Just in case…

“You should’ve seen him on his knees, begging and pleading.” Sergio bit his lip again as he began salivating over the image of the older man in such a submissive state. “And when I pushed into him, oh…”

 _You need help. So much help,_ Mesut thought as he swallowed down his own vomit. He had never heard, never seen a person so... So disconnected from the reality of a situation, the reality of his own actions. Sergio wasn't always like this though? He wasn't always this... sick? Or was he? He had to have been, he must've just been hiding it, suppressing it... Or maybe it was triggered by something. By him. By Cristiano. Cristiano was his trigger.

“It was as if he just forfeited himself to me, he crumbled beneath me. I had the control. The power. And he was so…” Sergio seemed to suddenly snap his attention back to reality; it was as if he had just remember Mesut was in the room. “I told him I was sorry, Mesut. And I had meant it. Whole-heartedly.” Sergio whispered, the sadism still lingering around his words but not nearly as strong as it had been before. “I let him know that I had realized that I had deserved to die for my actions…”

“Did he, Sergio? Did he deserve to die because you...? You are very much alive! He’s the one who’s fucking rotting away because of it!”

Sergio slowly approached Mesut, only Mesut realized that this, this person who was walking towards him, was not Sergio. Not really. His usual light, almond colored eyes seemed to darken to a deep, chocolate brown and his jawline seemed tense. The hands of the Sevillan quickly reached for the wrists of the German but Mesut reacted and, instead, found himself shoving “Sergio” harshly to the floor. Their bodies became entangled as the struggle for power continued on wooded floor: “Sergio” swearing that once he had a hold on Mesut he would know who was in charge, Mesut praying that Allah gave him strength. Eventually, Mesut gained the upper hand, pinning the Sevillan to the floor.

“You! You are getting fucking help. You are sick and you need to see a god damn professional.” Mesut yelled only inches from the Spaniards face. He would be damned if he allowed this shit to continue. Mesut shoved himself off of the number four and picked up the phone.

Because he cared. Mesut dialed that number and called her. Because he loved him. “Liza Garza, Crisis Counselor?”

* * *

 

He thumped his head against the dry erase board, he had been frustrated since he had arrived. He needed to get his team to maintain possession, to move the ball quickly – he’d been working for hours – and had thought that he had found a solution several times. Eight times, already, he’s thrown the numbers in different formations on the board and eight times he’s wiped them off.

 _Okay, Jose_ , he told himself, _work your way through it._

He lifted his head just enough to where he could stare comfortably at his freshly wiped board and groaned. _Work your way through it,_ he reminded himself.

 _Okay, so a 4-2-3-1 formation._ Jose drew the lines and abbreviated positions on the board.

 _I’ll keep Cech in between the sticks._ He jotted the number one down on the top of the line drawn just above “GK”. _He’s solid, consistent._

 _Let’s see, I’ll throw Cahill and John in at centre back?_ He threw the twenty-four on the board just alongside the twenty-six above the line abbreviate “CD”. _Yeah, that will work._

 _We’ll put César in at right back and Ashley over to the left._ Jose added the two and three to the board above the lines drawn over the “RB” and “LB” acronyms respectively and stepped away from the board. _Azpilicueta is a natural right back, he’ll bring balance to the rest of the defense,_ Jose reassured himself. _He and Ashley will surely be able to create the pressure we need going forward._

_Okay, defense? Fullbacks who are capable of pushing forward – check. Centre backs who can comfortably hold a high line – check. Solid. On to the midfield._

Jose scanned over his roster.

 _Let’s put Ramires next to Mikel in the midfield, see how they work together._ The twelve was scribbled in above the “DM” position. Y _eah, Ramires has great pace and remarkable stamina. We’ll definitely try him out with Mikel._

 _Let's see, attackers? Easy, we’ll let Mata look for the spaces behind Torres._ The ten and the nine were quickly drawn in above the “CM” and “CF” abbreviations respectively.

So why won’t this work? He looked over to his right and left wingers, _Moses to the right,_ he scribbled in the thirteen above the slot marked off for the right winger. And then, he scribbled in a seven above the spot reserved for the left winger, _Cristiano to the left_. Wait, who’s my other defensive midfielder?

Jose looked at the empty slot then back down to his roster. I thought I said Ram-…

A tear slowly made its way down his cheek – that was the problem. Cristiano wasn’t there and now he never would be. Jose filled in the other defensive midfielder slot with the number seven and reluctantly drew a one in front of the seven placed above the left winger’s position. He stared back at the board but needed to lean against the wall for support. He allowed himself to wither beneath the imposing emotional weight of his thoughts. He had always been prepared for everything but not this, never this. He closed his eyes, trying to gain residence amongst the memory that was slowly creeping up on him, regretting how easily he had let him go.

> _“I don’t understand. You like to win as I do; we just can’t win here, Cristiano. Three years have passed and what have we done? The Spanish people, they don’t like us, they don’t respect us in the way we deserve to be respected. You want to win again, you want to be the best again? Come back with me, to Chelsea. We’ll win there, we’ll win everything. Together. You’ll be recognized as the best player in the world again and people will forget about that overrated left foot of that little Argentinian. You’ve already shown that you can be the best in any league, you’ve proven yourself…”_
> 
> _“Then why do they still talk, Jose. Why do they still put me down every chance they get, compare me to Messi at any given opportunity. I’m complete, he’s not – everyone knows that but still, it doesn’t matter, Jose. If I go to the English League now, after one trophy less season, what does that say about me? I can’t compete against Leo? I am a proud man, Jose, and I will not leave just because this institution…”_
> 
> _“Is all about politics, Cristiano. Not the football. You’re all about the football, being the best. Come with me and you’ll become the greatest again.” Jose crossed the vacated room that had once served as his offices and gently placed the winger’s face within his hands. “We’ll be just as amazing together there, as we were here.”_
> 
> _“You don’t have to go, Jose.” Cristiano whispered, slowly looking the older man into the eyes. “We can still be great together here.”_
> 
> _“There’s nothing here, Cris. Can’t you see that?”_
> 
> _“…but I’m here.” Cristiano breathed, closing the gap of the few inches that separated them._
> 
> _It was not rushed but soft, not empty but meaningful. It was as they had always been. Never about love nor lust – they had merely appreciated one another when no else had, when the rest of the world lost faith – never about anything more than simple whispers of reassurance and light touches of admiration._

Jose’s eyes drifted from the seventeen of Eden Hazard to the nine of Torres. _He isn’t you, I know. He never will be._

* * *

 

Iker looked down at his newly purchased book of empty pages. He had been hesitant but Cristiano had made him realize the importance of keeping a memento of the hard times, something he could look back on to see how far he’s come. For other’s to look back on, when his time comes, to try to catch a glimpse in his mind. This wasn’t for them, though. This wasn’t even for him. He sighed and let his pen trace across the blank sheet:

_“All that is gold does not glitter_

_Not all those who wander are lost_

_The old that is strong does not wither_

_Deep roots are not reached by the frost._

_From the ashes a fire shall be woken_

_A light from the shadows shall spring…”_

> _I wish I can say that I was never angry with you, that I had always understood your choice to leave this world, to leave me. I didn’t, though. Not at first. You gave me one beautiful night, you showed me what it was like to have heaven within my grasp._
> 
> _I feel so guilty now. I should have known by the way you loved me like it was your last night, I should’ve known you had accepted that you were giving up by the empty bottles that had littered your bar top just the night before. Forgive me, please, for thinking with my heart and not my head? You were at your lowest of lows only moments before, how could I have been so naïve to think that was all it took. At the time when you needed me most, I can’t help but feel as if I had let go too soon._
> 
> _I had watched a father teach his son how to ride his bike a couple of days ago in the park and I guess I had never really thought of it. Father’s love their sons, a different kind of love than I had for you but love none the less. The little boy put so much trust in his father; he seemed to know his father would be there should he fall, he seemed to trust that his father wouldn’t let him go before it was time…_
> 
> _I thought I had let you go before it was your time, as if I had forsaken the trust you had instilled in me. Despite all of the warning signs, the wills and the admissions of you just wanting to end it all… I had always thought that you were beyond death, like you were bulletproof, untouchable. Invincible._
> 
> _He had a knack for anticipating what was to come and had a notorious record of bringing them to a dead end. On more than one occasion he’s saved his team. On more than one occasion he’s saved his country. He’s always been there when they needed him thick or thin, in high pressure situations... He was always there. Saving them. Every once in a while, though, he would come across one that was struck in just the right spot, one struck just hard enough, one that even he couldn’t see coming, one that couldn’t be saved._
> 
> _I had you in my arms. I had caught you. I should’ve held on tighter, I should’ve kept my guard up. You asked me to stay with you. I should’ve. Had I of known that it was the last time I’d of seen you, I would’ve never left your side. Even if I could’ve just told you how I felt… One hug. One kiss. That’s all I would’ve needed._
> 
> _I know you said that you knew how I felt about you, but you didn’t. You could never know how deep it runs in me, I didn’t even know until I lost you. I lost a large portion of myself. I feel as if I’m nothing without you, now._
> 
> _ I know you want me to let you go but I cannot and I will not do that – again. I swear to you until my dying breath that I will always hold you close to me. And, I know it’s selfish, hoping that there is a God simply for the reassurance that you are up there looking down on me. If there is, though, Cris… Please. Don’t let me go. _

* * *

 

“Ricardo, just because I’m going to recommend you for in-patient doesn’t mean that I’m calling you “crazy”. I just think that your coping methods have taken a sharp, destructive turn and I believe it would be beneficial for you.”

Kaka groaned. He hadn’t meant to text his response to their crisis counselor, he was sure he had written it in his book. _Fucking wine._ “You think I’m…”

“No, Ricardo. Take control of the situation and your feelings. Use the “I messages” we talked about in group.”

Kaka yawned and looked over at the clock. It was too damned early/late for this shit. “I feel frustrated when you suggest I’m a fucking nut case because I know I’m not fucking crazy.”

“I feel as if you’re taking this the wrong way, Ricardo. I’m not calling you crazy. I just think that your alcohol use has become excessive and as if you are using alcohol in the wrong manner. It’s not intended to be used in the way you are choosing to use it in…”

_It sure as hell is helping me deal with you._

“…I have to go, Kaka. I have an incoming call...”

_At this hour?_

“…but I will push through the paperwork in the morning.”

“Mrs. Garza, can you at least wait until after the game this weekend? Please? Just give me that and I’ll do whatever the hell you want me to do.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

* * *

 

Fernando stared up the ceiling trying to gather his thoughts together. Trying to figure out what the hell had happened back at Sergio’s. He closed his eyes and submersed himself fully into the memory that had intruded on his time with Sergio.

> _“Hey, Torres. Coach wants to talk to you!” Juan yelled as he came bounding out of the locker rooms. “Don’t worry man. He doesn’t look like he’s about to tell you to pack your shit.” He added laughingly before joining the rest of the team._
> 
> _Fernando groaned as he made his way back to the manager’s office. The media had_
> 
> _been talking and this time he couldn’t just ignore it. They were all claiming that he’d be out first thing with Mourinho’s arrival. First he earned the title as the “flop” of the BPL and now Chelsea was probably going to shove him out the door._
> 
> _“You wanted to see me?” Fernando voiced as he rounded the corner of Mourinho’s door frame._
> 
> _“Ah, yes. Torres. Please, sit. If you’re worried, don’t be,” Mourinho tried reassuring him as he closed the door, “you’re not going anywhere. I know they said that you were no good in England but they’re not me. I know why you were not doing well and it was never your fault. But this is the past. Now, I will receive your best and your all out there on the pitch.”_
> 
> _Fernando felt like shrinking under the intense eye contact._
> 
> _“I will adapt this team around you, I will make sure that you will have the quality passes you need to be prolific in front of the goal. But you are going to have to prove yourself to me.”_
> 
> _A haughty smirk crossed the features of the Portuguese man as he stood up and made his way to the front of his desk, standing only a mere foot from Fernando._
> 
> _“You’re going to have to earn your place on this team, Fernando.” Mourinho adjusted his belt as he accentuated every syllable of the Spaniard’s name. He leaned in slowly but he abrasively placed a heavy hand on the back of the freckled striker's neck._
> 
> _The scent of Jose’s heavy musk filled his nose, wrapping all around him._
> 
> _The older, Portuguese man slid his rough hand down to the well trained shoulders of the number nine. “You are not untouchable.” He whispered heavily, lustfully into the younger man’s ear as his hand slip just over his pectoral muscle._

Fernando had known he was attracted to the older man before he ever made his way into the manager’s office at Chelsea. At least he wasn’t in denial? It wasn’t the last time they had done anything either but why was that instance the memory that kept invading his thoughts? It’s not like he actually wanted to be with Jose… Did he? Or did he want Sergio? Or Olalla?

Fernando looked down at his phone, realizing he had missed a few text messages. Most of them were from Olalla, progressing from “How did it go?” to “Do I need to call the police?”

_**SMS from Fernando to Olalla:** _

_To be honest, I have no fucking idea how anything went._

He looked down at the next message and felt his heart skip a beat. Whatever he was going to decide he needed to decide fast. Olalla was being beyond understanding with him as she allowed him to sort out his shit with Sergio. How would she feel knowing he had messed around with Jose on the side as well?

**_SMS from Jose to Fernando:_ **

_ Training at 0930 Wednesday; be there an hour early _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sword like stem and blossoms of the beautiful gladiolus are the reason for its name, the gladiolus was originally the flower given to victorious roman gladiators. Through the years the flower has come to represent strength of character.
> 
> *
> 
> “All that is gold does not glitter,  
> Not all those who wander are lost;  
> The old that is strong does not wither,  
> Deep roots are not reached by the frost.  
> From the ashes a fire shall be woken,  
> A light from the shadows shall spring;  
> Renewed shall be blade that was broken,  
> The crownless again shall be king.”  
> ― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring


	25. Cracks Let the Light In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Bullshit!” Mesut interrupted, “There’s no such thing as a hopeless situation. You’re just damaged, cracked. But there’s a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in. Yours is just a bit more, fuck that, a lot more severe. I’m not saying to tell her everything just yet but you will eventually.” Mesut redialed the number as he finished his sentence, looking down at Sergio in warning._

“Mesut! No, please.” Sergio threw himself at the German, pleading for him to hang up the phone. His knees thumped against the hardwood flooring but he was too desperate to care about the potential bruising. He may have looked more like a three year old than the twenty-seven year old man that he was, pleading with Mesut while grabbing urgently at his thighs, but he didn’t give a damn. Any and all of his dignity, pride, and self-respect died the day he found Cris’ blood on his hands, both literally and figuratively speaking.

He knew exactly who Mesut had just dialed and sincerely wanted to sway him from speaking to the devil woman. There was something about her he didn’t like and he wasn’t the only one. Iker had gotten a bad feeling from her as well. She seemed to be more curious in what had happened with Cristiano than dealing with the aftereffects of what had happened. Any time they had asked her why it mattered so much, as the why didn’t really matter as it was in the past, she would take the defensive and accuse one or the other, depending on which one she was speaking to as she rarely saw Sergio and Iker together due to the rotation of captains duties and the therapy sessions, of telling her how to do her job. They had both come to the conclusion that Mrs. Garza wasn’t to be trusted too much. “Please, Mesut. I trusted you, I confided in you. How are you any better than me, right now? Isn’t this betrayal? Can we not just go over my options first? Do I have options? Please, Mesut.” He would have preferred to have been stabbed over and over again to discussing his problems with that… that…bitch.

Mesut stopped as he caught sight of the light almond colored eyes. What the fuck? Those weren’t there before. “Sergio. You need to be evaluated. Whatever is going on with you is serious, you need serious help!” Mesut stated, trying to be firm in his resolve. Sergio could be quite persuasive, a skill he had often witnessed the Sevillan put to good use first hand on the pitch, and he was determined not to give in to that. Then again, Sergio had a point.

Mesut hung up the phone just as Mrs. Garza’s voice resonated over the earpiece for a second time, though he still held the phone held tightly in his grasp and close to his ear. “First, explain to me what the hell just happened there. Between you and me. I need to know, Sergio. It’s almost as if you were…”

“…going to do it again.” Sergio finished for the German, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I think I was, I don’t know. I guess when I feel as if I’m about to lose the control of a situation, I just, I just snap and it’s almost as if… I watch it happen but I don’t feel connected to what’s going on at all. I can’t stop it. Maybe a piece of me doesn’t want to. I know it sounds fucking crazy just… Not her. Anybody other than her if you must.” Tears of defeat fell from his face. He knew something was wrong with him, he knew he was broken. He just needed to be fixed, even if that means going to a more permanent route, he already has one man’s blood on his hands. “Call the police. Let them take me, just don’t make me talk to her.”

Mesut stared back at Sergio, his eyes daring Sergio to continue.

“I haven’t always been…” Sergio sighed and tried to remember a time before he was broken. Perhaps the time he spent in England with Fernando just after the Confederation’s Cup. He had a pleasant time and even made Fernando Tortilla Espanola.

> _“I love you.”_
> 
> _“I know you do.”_

Sergio groaned. Nope, he had already been cracked by then. Perhaps the night just after the Euro Finals in Ukraine last year. Sergio remembered the laughter and all of the jokes after Fernando gifted Juan with the final goal of the tournament. He definitely remembered sneaking out and into the pool with Fernando to do a lot more than swimming.

> _“I love you.”_
> 
> _“I know you do.”_

Had he always been messed up?

“Sergio!” Mesut had been snapping fingers in front of the Sevillan for the past two minutes in an attempt to try to capture the older man’s attention. “Was it the voicemail that made you…?” Mesut flailed his arms around as if that said everything.

“Not really. It made me angry, no doubt. It still does, to be honest. Like I said, when I went to go find Cristiano my initial intent was to work on my ball control. Then, when I realized he was showering, I was just going to mess with him a bit. But then I saw him and…”

“You snapped.” Mesut finished for him, eyeing him closely. “Look, I’m not telling you to tell her everything but you do need to tell her something. You’re sick, Sergio. You need help. Something is triggering all of this and whatever it is, it’s not good for you.”

“I can't be fixed. There's nothing I can…”

“Bullshit!” Mesut interrupted, “There’s no such thing as a hopeless situation. You’re just damaged, cracked. But there’s a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in. Yours is just a bit more, fuck that, a lot more severe. I’m not saying to tell her everything just yet but you will eventually.” Mesut redialed the number as he finished his sentence, looking down at Sergio in warning.

“Mrs. Garza? Yes. Sorry about the hang up earlier. I just wanted to let you know that Sergio and I,” he gave Sergio a halfhearted smile of reassurance, “will be there bright and early to discuss a very important issue with you.”

Mesut noticed the tiredness fade out of Mrs. Garza’s voice immediately. It was no secret to anyone that she had been anxious to have a tête-à-tête with Sergio, as well as Iker.

“0730 sounds good. We’ll see you then.” Mesut released an audible sigh and looked over to where Sergio was slumped in a chair at the dining room table. His arms were folded across his chest and he looked absolutely exhausted. "This will help you, I swear. Losing one person was more than anyone can handle and, regardless of your responsibility or role in the matter, I'm not losing two."

“Why are you doing this for me?” Sergio asked suddenly while slowly glancing up to catch the German’s eyes. “You’re supposed to hate me. You’re supposed to call me a despicable human being who wasn’t worthy of coexisting alongside Cristiano. You’re not supposed to help me.”

Mesut looked away from the Spaniard and looked down to his feet. For the first time since he walked through the front doors of the Spanish villa, his resolve and confidence died down. Despite everything he had just discovered about Sergio and regardless of how things had just played out between them, he suddenly felt like the little German who had just arrived to Madrid, waiting to be taken under Sergio’s wing. He felt so…small. Mesut felt his body shake as Sergio stood from his seat, he had already forced this man who was clearly stronger than he into submission once, there was no way in hell he had two of those in him. The German searched for the almond colored eyes and let out a sigh of relief as he found them, then the arms of the Sevillan extended suddenly. Mesut flinched, anticipating the impact, but was shocked as he felt a warm chest against his own and arms wrapped around him. It was just a hug, thank Allah. Mesut returned the hug and held Sergio in the embrace for several minutes. There was a time where he could have held him for a lifetime, hell, piece of him still wanted to…but he groaned as he looked at the clock. “You should probably get to bed. You’re going to be exhausted and barely able to function in the morning if you’re up any longer,” he whispered into the defender’s ear. “Goodnight, Sergio.” Mesut said as he broke the hug.

“Thank you, Mesut. For everything.” Sergio gave Mesut a light squeeze on the shoulder before making his way to bed.

Mesut watched as Sergio disappeared before looking around the kitchen. Somebody had been cooking in there before he had arrived and hadn’t spared the time to pick up the mess. Mesut let his eyes fall on the clock, once again, checking the time – again, eventually deciding that sleep was beyond his grasp. He walked over to the range and flipped the burner to off. There was ash in the skillet, something had definitely been neglected and burnt to ash.

The number ten chuckled as he blew the dusty remains of the something into the trash just before placing the skillet in the sink. As he turned on the faucet and waited for the water to heat up, he glanced around the house taking in all that is Sergio. He had been here several times before, all in more jovial situations, but he had never really looked at the place. Chic minimalist seems to really suite Sergio, Mesut thought as his eyes found the simplistic furniture and few frames on the wall. He frowned as he realized there was a frame that had been covered with, what seemed to be, a cloth napkin.

Mesut walked over to the square of hanging fabric cautiously, as if something may jump out from behind it, just after shutting off the hot sink water. He lifted at one of the corners and allowed his features fall to – pity? – as he caught site of the collage beneath it. Iker and Sergio stood together faces covered completely with a grin while they held a Copa del Rey trophy which grew out of that photograph and into another photo of them smiling, only the trophy had progressed to a La Liga trophy; the La Liga trophy grew into a photo of the two of them holding an UEFA Champions League trophy which grew to a Confederations Cup trophy; the Confederations Cup trophy grew to a Euro Cup trophy which grew to the World Cup photo of the two of them. The photo behind all of them was a simple photo, Iker and Sergio smiling together while at a tennis match. They had conquered the world together and now, Mesut supposed, Sergio was holding onto a secret that would probably destroy this man he’s been through so much with.

Mesut let out a sigh, suddenly feeling heavy, emotionally. Poor Iker had no clue, he couldn’t know. This, this would definitely be the straw to break the camel’s back. Had he been the only one to know? He stopped his train of thought and covered the collage of Sergio and Iker as he remembered that Fernando had been there as he arrived but had left shortly after. Fernando. He had to have known. That’s who he needed to talk to in order to bring finality to whatever was troubling Sergio. Mesut glanced over to Sergio’s phone.

**_SMS from Mesut to Fernando:_ **

_Hey, this is Mesut. I borrowed your number from Sergio. I don’t know when you’re going back to England but I was hoping I could talk to you about this thing that’s going on with Sergio. I’m sure you’ve probably already noticed but maybe you could help me figure out what’s triggering all of these episodes of his._

Mesut sighed as he pressed the send button. Hoping Fernando had an answer, some sort of insight to offer to him, as he was so much closer to Sergio than he had ever been. As close as he had once wanted to have been… The German shook his head in an attempt to clear it of his thoughts. He shouldn’t be here any longer than he needed to be, he quickly decided. He looked around, grabbing the post it notes off of the kitchen counter. He scribbled a quick note to Sergio, stuck it to the refrigerator and left.

“Be at the Ciudad by 0700”

As Mesut stepped out the door, he heard Sergio’s phone go off.  _It’s probably just Fernando letting Sergio know what I had told him._ He shrugged it off and climbed into his car.

* * *

Sergio had been lying awake in bed coming to grip with the fact that tomorrow it would be all over for him. Tomorrow he would face the music. Tomorrow he would be confronted with his mistakes and made to pay. He was relieved, much to his surprise, to have unloaded all that he was going through, all he had done, to somebody other than Fernando. He didn’t want to put Mesut in that position but Mesut had wanted to be…? He groaned as he heard his phone go off in the kitchen. He didn’t want to get up but did in the off chance that it was Fernando. Sergio had so much to say to him but he had to get his shit together before he could start calling out anybody else on their shit.

The Sevillan rushed down the hallway anyway and made his way into the dining room, hesitating for a momentary before he picked up the phone. He was worried that it may have be Ms. Garza, checking in, prying... _Damned either way,_ he thought as he answered the desperate rings of the cellular without checking the caller I.D. “Hello?”

“Oh, you’re still awake. Good. Hey, I know it’s late as fuck and I'm sorry... but I can really use somebody to talk to right now.”

“It’s not a problem, Iker." Sergio replied, wishing for once that he had picked up to Liza Garza instead. "Besides, it’s not as if I can catch any fucking sleep at all lately. You want me to come over?” Sergio asked habitually, regret consuming him the second the offer escaped his lips. He shouldn’t be around Iker, he didn’t deserve to be around Iker – especially after what he had done to the person Iker had loved. The fact that Iker hadn’t fallen in love with Cristiano until after the incident was obsolete and beside the point; Sergio had driven the person Iker had loved to the grave. Each moment of comfort he offered Iker he knew was like shoveling dirt over the keeper, burying the captain alive.

“Please. Thank you, Sergio.” Iker breathed into the phone. “You’re such an amazing friend.”

“No problem,” the Sevillan offered weakly in return, feeling crushed under the praise. “I – uh – I will be there in a few.” He managed to stutter out as he grabbed his keys from atop the counter.

* * *

_So much for having a chance to back out at the last minute,_ Sergio thought as he saw Iker’s front door open just as he had pulled into the drive. He slowly climbed out of the car, offering Iker a small wave that was returned with a faint smile.

“Thank you, so much. I’m just…” Iker sighed out as Sergio made his way to the door. “I’ll just show you.”

Sergio couldn’t help but notice that Iker looked a lot more at peace – with himself? With life? With what had happened? – his face seemed to take on a glow of serenity. It was strange, sudden. He watched as Iker disappeared into the hallway and came back with a book. “You want to read me a bedtime story?” Sergio asked, confused.

“No, this was Cris’ journal.” Iker explained handing the book over to Sergio. “I found it over at his place. I swung by there just after I dropped you off and it was just sitting there in the nightstand. I read it, well, most of it, anyway. There’s stuff in there about you.” Iker finished raising an eyebrow.

_A journal? Fuck. He knows, he fucking knows. He’s trying to kill me with kindness, he knows the guilt is eating away at me. He just wants to see how long it takes for me to break._

* * *

The clock’s hands weren’t moving fast enough and the ticks of the second hand seemed to be lagging, each one coming eternities after the next. She had been anxious since her conversation with Mesut; she had tried to go to sleep after she had hung up with the German but the “Z’s” proved to be evasive as she was weighed down in her pursuit of them by the heaviness of her thoughts and theories. Her mind kept dwelling on this, what she was going to say and how she was going to say it.

_I can do this. I am a well-respected psychiatrist. I have the power to not only make my life easier but the lives of other’s easy, as well._

Florentino was breathing down her neck, claiming that the club had suffered enough and that he needed Sergio and Iker back to their right minds – “they can’t lead a world class team with mental restraint” he had said – but the two leaders seemed dismissive in therapy sessions, even angry about what it was she was doing.

_He doesn’t have power over the mental state of the captains, nor do I but I do control what I say and how I go about saying it. I can help him but only if he lets me._

There was a faint knock at the door that pulled her from her thoughts. The door opened slowly and she took in an inhale of preparation as Mesut poked his head through the door frame.


	26. Don't Shatter The Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I’m bent, I’m not broken_  
>  Come live in my life  
> All the words left unspoken  
> Are the pages I write  
> On my knees, and I’m hoping  
> That someone holds me tonight  
> Hold me tonight 

The air filling the spaces around them was heavy and becoming heavier as it was quickly filling with all of the words between them that were left unspoken. The house seemed soundless yet the two fought the urge to cover their ears in an attempt to silence the shattering sound of spirits broken. The seconds dragged on, minutes seeming to last an eternity. The rustling of the pages of Cristiano’s thoughts left unspoken became the only indication that life, though dim and growing dimmer, dwelled in the vicinity.

“He loved you.” Iker’s voice was hushed and distant yet it somehow bore all the emotion in the world. Tears threatened to fall from his rapidly filling lids but he managed to keep them in. “…so much.” He was deteriorating and the echoes of Cristiano’s sentiments of affection suddenly seemed as frail strands holding him there – keeping him there – now threatening to snap under the weight of his revitalized sorrow. “He… he would have done anything to be with you. That’s something, huh?”

“He did, didn’t he?” Sergio’s voice cracked from the guilt – how was he supposed to live with himself after reading the confessions of Cristiano’s feelings for him, with the knowledge of what he had done to him? “He loved you, too…”

Sergio flipped through the pages a bit more, he had already read it in its entirety, eyes catching the phrases that made him feel as if there was a hand clenched around his heart. _“I knew that I’d do anything he asked of me, I knew I’d be there for him no matter what.” “…thinking that was all I needed.” “I just want what’s best for him, what will bring him the most content.” “Chelsea may have to find a new number nine… I just want him to go back to being the Sergio we all know and love. The Sergio I love.” “I wasn’t going to stand idly by and watch the prick play puppet master […]Besides, Olalla seemed grateful.”..._ “He was always there for me. And how did I return the favor?” Sergio asked more to himself than anything as he re-read the first entry. How had Cristiano been able to find so much good inside of him? Now the only good things left in him were the memories that Cristiano still seemed to live through, as painful and tormenting as they were, Cristiano was alive in them – in them he wasn’t a monster. “I…”

“We all hurt him, Sergio.” Iker breathed out shakily, a tear breaking free from the restraint. “He didn’t feel loved or appreciated…from anyone.” Iker looked down at his hands, in his mind he was seeing red there for the first time. “We never told him how much he meant to us, how much he meant to me...”

Sergio found Iker’s eyes resting on the floor, sensing the all too familiar feeling of guilt emitting from the keeper. _How can I just stand here and let Iker blame himself?_ “This,” Sergio calmly whispered approaching the keeper, “this is not your fault, Iker.” Sergio let his tears fall freely, letting the emotions of remorse and empathy come to him naturally. “You did all that you could do for him, you even saved him. You pulled him up out of his…”

“But I let him go too soon, Sergio! Oh God!” Iker allowed his body to collapse to the floor. He couldn’t take it anymore. He had to let it out, set free all of the emotion he had locked away within him since he was forced to let Cristiano go.

Sergio could only just stand there and watch as Iker fell apart in front of him.

“Why?!” Iker shouted, withering to the floor, asking the one worded question for the first time since the flag over his heart reset to half-mast, waving as a reminder, a reassurance that there was life there once. “Why me? Why couldn’t I just…?”

“It wasn’t your responsibility, Iker! It wasn’t your fault… It was...”

“I LET GO, SERGIO! Don’t you see that?! Open your fucking eyes! He wasn’t strong enough to stand on his own again and I resumed my life as if everything was okay! But it wasn’t! It wasn’t, Sergio! He fell again and I wasn’t… I wasn’t there to catch him! God, just, just…just give me one more chance! I’d take it all back!”

Sergio knelt down beside his teammate, his captain – his friend. He pulled him into his arms, cradling him, his shoulder quickly soaking from the tears. For tonight, he wasn’t here for Cris. For tonight, he wasn’t there for himself. For tonight, he was there for Iker, for his pain. For his tears. They had been through so much together, on and off the pitch. Sergio’s heart turned as reminded himself – again – that he was the one responsible for what Cristiano had done. He was the one responsible for Iker’s pain and suffering. He was the one with the blood on his hands, he was the one who had forced the very tears he was now trying to catch.

“I can’t tell him goodbye. Not now. It’s partly my fault, his not being here. I tried telling myself it wasn’t but how many lies will it take to convince me, to make me feel alright? He told me he was going to die, that he wanted to die. He told me that he had written a will but I swear, I swear Sergio… I had always thought that death was beyond him, despite the pain he was going through. I had always seen him as this beacon of resilience, I was just waiting for him to bounce back. I thought he had…”

Sergio pulled back, looking down at the goalie, surprised by the sudden hushed calmness in Iker’s voice. “It’s not your fault, Iker.” He whispered soothingly.

“It is, Sergio. Can’t you see that? I thought wrong and I let him go. He told me not to that same day. He told me. You know, I felt as if I died with him, the day they found… the day they had discovered what he had done. But no, this is what dying must feel like. To finally have closure, to know that he loved me too. He had trusted me and I let him down. This must’ve been what Cristiano felt like, being pinned and held down by the memories, willing yourself to just plummet the additional six… ready to die.”

“Iker, don’t…”

“We made love the night before he took his own life, Sergio.” Iker voiced near inaudibly into Sergio’s chest. "The night before he... We were together, apart of each other."

_He didn’t take his own life, Iker. I did._ But now was not the time for that. Now was not the time shatter the broken spirit in his arms… “I didn’t realize you two had happened so close to the…” Sergio didn’t finish his thought simply because he didn’t know how. _I didn’t realize you two had happened so close to the time I took him from you?_

“It was beautiful.” Iker dreamily replied no longer in the room with Sergio – lost in the luminescent memory of Cristiano. “It’s like we were two bodies with one mind, fused together as one – one thought, one intent, one purpose. There are no words that could ever be used to appropriately describe that night, to describe him. I swear, he was simply perfect. That should’ve raised a red flag, though. I can see that now, all too late. He let me look inside of him and I just walked away as if I had seen a strong man in his eyes, not a broken boy pleading for some guidance.”

Sergio listened silently to the thunderous shouts of a love lost, nostalgia entwining itself within the elder man’s words, words of Iker’s own paradise lost. He hadn’t noticed Iker move his head. He hadn’t noticed he was no longer holding the captain. He did notice the soft lips placing small kisses on his neck. He noticed the hands slowly rubbing their way up to his chest.

“I-I-Iker. I can’t…I can’t.” Sergio stuttered, his mind cluttering with emotion – remorse, nostalgia, empathy, guilt.

“Please, just stay for the night,” Iker’s lips had lifted slightly to vocalize his pleas but his lips still ghosted over the Sevillan’s skin, the warm air of Iker’s breath making contact sending shivers down Sergio’s spine. “No one else is going through what we are going through, he never loved them. We’re on the outside just watching as they move on... I’m not ready for that, not yet. I just can’t stay behind with him, with Cris and our memories, alone. Just, please stay with me, hold me tonight. Please, don’t let me go.”

A tear rolled off of Iker’s cheek, undulating down the Sevillan’s neck and chest until it came to rest over his heart.

_Someone left the door open_

_Who left me outside?_

_I’m bent, I’m not broken_

_Come live in my life_

_All the words left unspoken_

_Are the pages I write_

_On my knees, and I’m hoping_

_That someone holds me tonight_

_Hold me tonight_

* * *

“Mesut, please come in.” Liza motioned towards the couch she had shoved up against the wall and nervously sat down in her seat.

Sergio closely followed the German in, still tired from the night before – emotionally, physically, mentally. He was developing a knack for shattering things – people – that are already broken.

> _“Don't let me go.”_
> 
> _Sergio silently nodded. As parts of him told him it was the least he could do now, the other pieces condemning him to Gahanna._
> 
> _He swore he could feel Iker’s pain as the lips moved from his neck to his lips._
> 
> _... the hurt as he allowed Iker to gently force his way into him._
> 
> _He swore he could hear his cries for help amongst all of the sighs and pants._
> 
> _...the loss as the tears fell onto his chest throughout the night._
> 
> _There were no words yet Iker screamed at him begging him._
> 
> _Show me what it’s like to save again. Save me._

  
"Sergio, thank you for finally deciding to meet with me. We can start wherever you feel most comfortable beginning." Liza did her best to maintain her composure.

Sergio gave Mesut a hesitant glance which was met by a nod of reassurance. Sergio slowly pulled a crumbled paper out of his pocket and silently handed it over to Mrs. Garza, bracing himself for what was to come. He took in a sharp inhale as he watched her eyes carefully trace over the words scribbled before her.

> _21 September_
> 
> _Betrayed. That’s how he made me feel. Used._
> 
> _I can’t breathe, it’s like I’m gasping for air but I’m being choked by my thoughts – the memories, the good and the bad. I’ve wished them away, I’ve even prayed to that sick, grinning bastard in the sky but the clouds must be made of concrete. My every action seems to be plagued, accompanied by voices and recollections of him that just won’t go away, they won’t stop – they never fade but I seem to a little more as the progress. Continually reminding me of what we had – of what he’s done – of what he did by telling me…_
> 
> _I’m falling, crashing back down to the reality that this, this will never go away. This will never not have happened. I can’t undo knowing. Please, God, take this back. Undo this. Why did you allow this to happen? You gave me a taste of heaven - his lips on mine, his hands on me - then you hurled me back into hell. You are a cruel and sick God._
> 
> _But you. Why did you do this to me? Why did you take what I would have given you? And still, I can’t hate you. I could never hate you. I loved you, I would’ve given you anything you desired, whether it be me or another._

“He’s talking about me,” Sergio’s voice broke, barely audible, as he caught sight of the confused look on Liza’s face. “I broke him. I just... I fucking... I'm the reason he's dead. He didn't kill himself. I did that a few days before he physically left us. He was already gone... because of me. I broke him.”

Liza made her way over to Sergio, sitting beside him placing a hand on his knee. “Sergio, we were all created imperfect. In truth, we’re broken from the start. Your parents, your grandparents… everyone. You’re made up of nothing but broken parts delicately being held together. Cristiano was the same. You can't blame yourself for creating damage thay may have already been there.”

“Well, then, I just… I just fucking shattered him to little bits and pieces and scattered those to the wind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone left the door open  
> Who left me outside?  
> I’m bent, I’m not broken  
> Come live in my life  
> All the words left unspoken  
> Are the pages I write  
> On my knees, and I’m hoping  
> That someone holds me tonight  
> Hold me tonight
> 
> \- Outside ; Hollywood Undead


	27. Mine to Forgive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I loved you with all I had, with all I was, in every way I knew how. I do not want you now but I know that I must claim you: you are my rapist. And that makes you mine to forgive. You wielded the power of your body to crush my spirit, to take what was mine…but I forgive you. The forgiveness I give you does not dismiss you from taking responsibility for what you have done to me. You were wrong, and you will always be wrong. It is deeply and truly not okay. But I feel as if, before I go, I should a give you a forgiveness that’s beyond even my comprehension. You are not a monster but an imperfect human. You and I have both made mistakes, though they are not the same. You and I have been lost, have both taken wrong turns... (though, I have not taken the same wrong turns, I have taken wrong turns nonetheless)... that's life I suppose. If anything, you helped me realize exactly how much one person can affect the life of another..._

> _The sounds of the waves crashing and seagulls squawking flooded through his ears, silencing his heavy thoughts while soothing his mind to a state of peace. The smell of the saltwater filled his nostrils accompanied by the strong scent of seaweed and sand alike. The warm water lapped over his feet, beckoning him to come in, as the warm summer breeze gently caressed his hair. The sun beat down on sand, bringing the light of life within its rays, first showering the palm trees with its glimmers before they finally seeped through making their way to him. ‘It’s so peaceful here,’ he thought, burying his feet deeper within the grains of sand, tilting his chin upwards towards the sky, ‘I’m so glad I decided to come.’_
> 
> _“Iker…”_
> 
> _The goalie stopped thinking as the wind seemed to carry a light, whisper putting all of his energy and focus into his hearing. After moments of silence, he dismissed the seemingly ‘quiet voice’ thinking that, ‘It must’ve just been the whistling of the wind,’ as the sea breeze ruffled through his hair. He rolled his head on his shoulders. ‘It’s so peaceful, so relaxing here. I think I might…’_
> 
> _“Iker…” the tuneful voice interrupted the thoughts of the keeper again – this time more defined, more audible._
> 
> _‘That voice…’ The voice was all too familiar to Iker, though the melodic yet melancholic nature of it was something new. Though the voice seemed to fluctuate over the syllables of the Spaniard’s name, it still bore the weight of a lost soul._
> 
> _Iker’s eyes fluttered open, searching for the origin of the voice. Looking for him. It didn’t matter what his voice now sounded like to him, he was just grateful to have the chance to hear it again. To hear him saying his name. He first glanced upwards to the place he had always supposed him to be, noting that the sun was still hanging quite high in the blue sky and that there still wasn’t a cloud in sight. Clear skies – even the seagulls seemed to have taken refuge from the intense heat amongst the towering cliffs nearby, though he observed a few flapping wildly around the leaning palm trees. He hoped to catch sight of him in the midst of the squawking birds but was forced to resort to sighs and groans of exasperation as he discovered the root cause of their commotion to merely be a dying fish._
> 
> _Iker looked back out at the ocean catching sight of white capped waves toppling over one another, crashing as they slammed up against some nearby rocks – but quickly observed that he didn’t seem to be amongst them and if he had been… ‘Maybe he’s not here?’_
> 
> _The keeper spun on his heel and looked back towards the sand dunes that had formed just behind him, desperately searching for any traces of him. He groaned as he found only patches of sea oats and mounds littered with sea shells. He dragged his eyes back along the shoreline, searching for any traces of him there, discovering only his own footsteps and dead seaweeds._
> 
> _Iker tugged at his hair, growing frustrated with each passing moment, turning sharply from his left to his right, urgently searching for any signs that he was there with him – signs that would tell him he hadn’t gone crazy._
> 
> _“Iker…” The forlorn voice despondently sung, once again luring the keeper in its source's direction._
> 
> _Iker jogged over towards the rocky parts of the shore, just meters from where he had stood, observing that the water seemed to be choppier there._
> 
> _“W-where are you?” Iker started to panic as his eyes scoured the shores, searching high and low. He was desperate to find him. He needed to know that he was okay, needed to see him with his own eyes._
> 
> _“Who are you searching for?” The voice questioned him mystically, coming from nowhere he could possibly pin point._
> 
> _“…you? I’m searching for…” Iker whispered._
> 
> _“I’m right here, where I’ve always been.” The unearthly voice replied. “…waiting for you.”_
> 
> _Iker turned sharply to the right, as he heard the voice directly beside him, feeling a presence hovering around him._
> 
> _“Where did you go?” Iker breathed out shakily. “Where are you? I miss you and I need to see you, I need to hold you in my arms again. It feels like it’s been forever.”_
> 
> _“But I’m right here...”_
> 
> _Iker felt his warm, humid breath on his ear as a light pressure ghosted over his chest, over the region where he had once held a warm, filled heart. He instinctively covered the area with the palm of his hand, trying to catch what remained of the fleeting touch. He sighed as the only thing he came into contact with was his own chest._
> 
> _“Wha-what’s going on?” Iker stuttered. He couldn’t feel his heartbeat. “Wha-what’s happening to me?” Iker’s eyes darted around searching desperately for him – for answers. Iker immediately came to a stop as he caught sight of him, splashing around playfully in the water. Forgetting about himself, Iker immediately stepped further out into the water, only stopping when the salty blue-green water reached his calves. He glanced up at the other man seeking reassurance, smiling as he found the younger man still preoccupied with the waters of Poseidon's backyard. Forcing his way through the current, ignoring all of the warning signs of the now perilous sea, he made his way to the other man as quickly as possible. The current seemed to be growing in strength with each passing second, still the goalie swiftly and resolutely made his way towards him. A few more strides out and Iker found himself forced to lean forward against the incoming pressure of the sea; nothing was going to stop him from getting to the younger man._
> 
> _The younger man’s bronze skin shimmered under the sunlight and his smile seemed to practically rival the sun in brightness. He let out a laugh as he seemed to trip over something and sink below the surface of the water._
> 
> _It was almost as if he was pulling him in, Iker couldn’t help but to wade closer to him. The younger man resurfaced, water droplets rolling gently down his face, tumbling down further to trace his muscular frame before falling back into the vast ocean. He ran his fingers through his black locks and looked up towards the ball of fire that hovered above. Iker stopped at the sight of him, drinking him all in – no he couldn’t stop, not now. He was right there, just a few more steps and he could…_
> 
> _The current grew stronger forcing Iker to lean forward against it. Nothing was going to stop him from getting to the younger man. “No, no! No!” Almost instantly, he saw the younger man being pulled down seemingly caught in the undertow. He tried to rush out to him but kept tripping over himself, the current forcing him back to shore with each misstep. “No! Cris!”_
> 
> _“Iker…” the sound of Cristiano’s melodic, soft cries of melancholy reached his ears once again, only his voice was now seeming to come from behind the keeper_
> 
> _Iker flailed his body around in the water, searching for any trace of Cristiano as he watch the Portuguese man slip beneath the surface of the ocean. "Cris! Where are you? Cris!"_
> 
> _“I’m right here.”_
> 
> _Iker looked back towards the shore, breathing heavily, and released a sigh of relief as he saw Cristiano standing on the beach, feet implanted firmly in the sand. He quickly swam back to the shore, desperate to be reunited with him again. He panted as he reached the beach and crawled onto the shore, legs still exhausted from fighting against the strong ocean current._
> 
> _“You didn’t need to go there, to come here, to be with me again.”_
> 
> _“How can you say that? I let you go too soon, I’m not – I wasn’t about to do that again…” Iker collapsed to his back under an unfamiliar weight, one he couldn’t quite place. He suddenly felt as if he couldn’t breathe, blood rushed to his face, and he still couldn’t feel his own heartbeat. He clawed at the sand beneath him in a weak attempt to hold on to something... Something that seemed to be evading him at the moment._
> 
> _ “I let go of you. Forgive me?” Cristiano’s voice was suddenly so close to him but he still seemed to be just out of reach, “I couldn’t pull you under with me. I’m right here now, though. Waiting for you.” He felt a light pressure over his chest as his heart seemed to start beating again. “…still waiting.” _

Iker quickly opened his eyes, feeling heavy and groggy, gasping for air. He was struggling to breathe, hell, he felt as if he had been suffocated. His vision was blurry and he felt extremely weak. A salty, cold sweat had coated his skin causing his thin bed sheets to cling to him. What the hell? He didn’t feel right, something was wrong. He slowly forced himself to an upright position and lazily looked around the room: a used condom (Sergio had been over for a few hours last night – that he remembered), an empty bottle of wine (that he remembered or at least part of it), an empty bottle of Lithium (that he didn’t remember?)…

_How the fuck?_ Iker looked down at the date on the bottle - yesterday's date. There’s no way he had gone through thirty days’ worth of Lithium in less than twenty-four hours unless he had… _Had I overdosed? No, I couldn't have. There's no way in hell I'd still be…_ Iker released an involuntary shiver as a familiar warmth settled on his skin and the smell of saltwater and seaweed filtered through his nostrils and filled his lungs. He felt a ghostly pressure over his chest.

“…still waiting.”

_ Cris? _

* * *

 

The clock had been quickly removed from the room as the continuous ticking of its second hand had driven everyone mad during the first moment of prolonged silence.

“A person’s resilience is just that. Their resilience. Whether or not they bounce back to their way of life is a choice they make. Did you push him down? You may have. I’m not sure of what happened between the two of you but he chose not to get back up. Sergio, you can’t keep holding yourself responsible for this.”

“Jesus. Can you not hear me? I am responsible. Tell her Mesut. Tell her about how Cristiano did get back up just for me to shove him back down again. He did try to go back to the way things were before I… but no! I was the selfish one. I was the one who needed a clean conscious. I never thought he would…”

Liz looked up from the journal entry she was still holding in her hands and into Sergio’s eyes. “You don’t have to tell me if you’re not comfortable with it yet, but...how exactly did you ‘shatter’ Cristiano, Sergio?”

Sergio looked over to Mesut who leaned in and whispered words of encouragement to him. “You need this, Sergio.”

“I’m a shit person, Mesut. I don’t deserve to be helped.”

“Don’t say things like that, Sergio.” Mesut reprimanded the Sevillan, placing a comforting hand on his knee. “You’re not a ‘shit person’, you’ve just done shitty things. Besides, you’re not the only person who needs this. Cris needs this, too. Please. Do this for Cristiano.”

“For Cris,” Sergio whispered to himself as he dug yet another piece of crumbled paper from his pocket and hesitantly handed it over to the psychiatrist.

Liza looked down at the newest piece of the journal entry and immediately delved further into the mind of Cristiano, going wide-eyed as all of the answers to her questions were lying before her.

> _I loved you with all I had, with all I was, in every way I knew how. I do not want you now but I know that I must claim you: you are my rapist. And that makes you mine to forgive. You wielded the power of your body to crush my spirit, to take what was mine…but I forgive you. The forgiveness I give you does not dismiss you from taking responsibility for what you have done to me. You were wrong, and you will always be wrong. It is deeply and truly not okay. But I feel as if, before I go, I should a give you a forgiveness that’s beyond even my comprehension. You are not a monster but an imperfect human. You and I have both made mistakes, though they are not the same. You and I have been lost, have both taken wrong turns... (though, I have not taken the same wrong turns, I have taken wrong turns nonetheless)... that's life I suppose. If anything, you helped me realize exactly how much one person can affect the life of another..._
> 
> _You and I will forever be tied together, from the fond memories to these unspeakable ones. You'll think of me often, of that I'm sure... I feel as if that’s punishment enough, despite what I have chosen to do. I do not hate you rather I forgive you. Rest assured that I did not do this because of you but for another._

“You... you said he was talking about you ?” Liza cleared her throat and took in a sharp inhale. This was not something she had prepared herself for; all of her theories were instantly shot and now she caught herself speechless.

Sergio simply nodded, too ashamed to meet her eyes.

I can do this. I am a well-respected psychiatrist. I have the power to not only make my life easier but the lives of other’s easy, as well. Liza reminded herself.

“Where do we go from here?” Mesut asked, concern evident in his tone of voice.


	28. Triggers and Commitments

**_SMS from Jose to Fernando:_ **

_Training at 0930 Wednesday; be there an hour early_

**_SMS from Mesut to Fernando:_ **

_Hey, this is Mesut. I borrowed your number from Sergio. I don’t know when you’re going back to England but I was hoping I could talk to you about this thing that’s going on with Sergio. I’m sure you’ve probably already noticed but maybe you could help me figure out what’s triggering all of these episodes of his._

Fernando groaned as he looked over the two messages he had as of yet to find the words for. Sure, the message from Mesut only required a phone call in response but it was a call that he wasn’t quite ready for in the moment. The Spaniard glanced at the clock, noting that he had about six hours before his flight back to England departed, back to Olalla who was probably anxiously awaiting his arrival with hands on her hips with questions about what was to become of them. What was he supposed to tell her?

_Oh yes, Olalla, I flew all the way back home to Spain for him. How did things go? Well he forced himself on me and pretty much raped me but it’s okay, I mean I think I deserved it. How is that you say? Oh, I just so happened to sleep my way into the starting line ups with Spain by blowing Del Bosque and Chelsea by letting Mourinho bang my brains out, dear. Not to mention, I did this all throughout the duration our marriage. Not deserving, you say? Well, considering how I emotionally abused Sergio and drove him into raping another man who killed himself because of it… perhaps I deserved the same. Still not there? Jesus you’re too kind, Olalla. Well, you couldn’t have possibly forgotten about how Nora…?_

The striker quickly shook off the bothersome thoughts. Olalla was being more than generous in the leniency department as it was, he’d be lucky to walk out of that house alive for Wednesday’s training session. Bringing up past indiscretions she had already excused him of all for the sake of their child was one thing, informing her that he had cheated on her with multiple men was another.

Fernando slid off of the edge of the bed (where he had been sitting, unmoved, since he had received Jose’s text message the night before) and made his way to the bathroom. He went to flip on the light but quickly decided that his tired eyes preferred the darkness; he hadn’t been able to catch a wink of sleep and didn’t needed the bloodshot reminder staring back at him. Fernando felt around for the faucets using what light had started streaming into the hotel room [via the picture window located directly adjacent to the bathroom] to eventually find the two handles. He quivered, releasing a heavy sigh, as the sound of the water channeling its way through the pumps made its way to his ears.

> _Sergio…tenaciously walked towards the showers, turning on the shower located third from the right with intent._

Fernando urgently cupped his hands beneath the now warmed water and splashed at his face, attempting to try to wash away the memory of yesterday. He had never been so degraded in his life, he had always been the one who’d take control… _things are changing now, though. He’s changing and I forced him into it. It’s my fault he’s this way._ After rubbing his hands over his face for a fifth consecutive time, Fernando dared himself to look at his darkened image in the mirror; his eyes shifted upwards skeptically, vision strained by the [comfortable] lack of light. _You’re the one who desensitized him. You’re the one who mind-fucked him in Miami. You’re the one who toyed with him. You’re the one who messed him up… You’re the one who needs to fix this._

The number nine walked back into the bedroom with a newfound sense of determination and hurriedly dressed himself. After downing two glasses of coffee and deciding to take his third black, he picked up the keys to his rental and grabbed his phone from the top of his nightstand.

* * *

 

Mesut apologized as his phone sprung to life against his leg, vibrating within his jeans forming the only noise that broke the ever growing awkward silence that had formed since he had asked Liza what the next step was. He quickly pulled the device out of his pocket and check the screen, releasing a sigh of relief. “I really have to take this.” Mesut explained as he rose off of the sofa and pointed towards the door. “I’ll be right outside of the door if you need me in the meantime?” The German raised his eyebrows seeking permission from the therapist and Sergio alike. He didn’t want to just leave Sergio here, abandon him in his time of need even if it would only be for a few moments.

“That’s fine, Mesut,” Liza whispered, still looking at her notes in disbelief. “I could use a little one-on-one with Sergio, anyway. We’ll grab you when we’re ready for you, okay?” Liza nodded pardoning Mesut from the room.

Sergio hesitantly nodded as well, accompanying his nod with a half-smile.

"I’ll be right here," Mesut mouthed over to him, offering him another trinket of solace in the form of a smile. The German slid out of the door, making his way into the empty hallway, and promptly answered his ringing device. “Hey,” he breathed, relieved to both be out of that intense room and to be receiving a call back from the Chelsea man.

“Hey, so I received your message last night. Sorry for not texting or calling you back. It’s just that I, uh, just didn’t know what to say so…” Fernando rambled into his mouthpiece, “I’m here to help in any way I can, though.”

Mesut rubbed the back of his neck, trying to figure out where to begin. “Yeah, sorry about interrupting you and Sergio last night. You guys looked like you were in the middle of an intense conversation. It’s just that, uh, I had been a little concerned for Sergio for a while now. He’d been acting pretty strange, even before Cristiano ... So yesterday, when I walked in on him and Iker talking in the locker room I sort of freaked out. For good reason, apparently. I figured, or maybe it was just my hopes projecting, that you knew as well? About him and…?”

“Cristiano.” Fernando finished for the German, biting his bottom lip as he did, focusing on a painting that hung on the wall just in front of him. “Yeah, I found out yesterday…”

“As did I.” _Shit, he’s in the same boat I’m in._ “How did you find out? I mean, I know you and Sergio have been…you know, for a while but you only found out yesterday?” _Maybe he knows something I don’t?_

Fernando drew in a sharp breath of air, running his free hand through his hair. “Uhm, two? Three days ago? The day before yesterday? I flew in from England because I was worried about him, I figured he’d need somebody there who could console him. So I showed up in Spain and called Xabi who told me he was probably out getting shit-faced in the pub. Sure enough, there he was…” Fernando mused, shaking his head disapprovingly, “he had been mumbling something about drunk men, something about Cristiano having been right about everything up until he forgave him when I showed up… I said a few words and then he just snapped. Started shouting something like ‘Cris, you weren’t in love with me, you don’t forgive me. Take it back.’ I figured he was just drunk, you know, because he and Iker had just flew in from Portugal not even two days before? So I took him back to his place and put him to bed but, as I was waiting for him, I found his book for your therapy thing on the coffee table… I started to go through it. I know, I’m fucking nosy. But, anyways, a letter fell out of it written to Sergio from Cristiano which immediately struck me as odd. He told me later that it had been a suicide letter that Cristiano had left for him, that Katia had given it to him. I read it and was concerned. I mean it eluded to something having happened between them, something that drove Cristiano to do what he did. So I asked him and he…” Fernando started choking on his words, “showed me the following day after your little session. That’s why he was in the locker room.”

“Fernando,” Mesut whispered. “Are you…? Did he…? Are you alright?” Mesut panicked. Sergio had raped Cristiano, Fernando, and had even possibly tried to do the same to him. Why? Why did he keep doing it having witnessed first-hand what something like that could do to a person?

“Yeah, yeah, Mesut. I’m fine,” No, you’re fucked up Fernando. “I’m just worried about Sergio. I just don’t want him to keep doing this. I want him to get well, you know. He wasn’t always…” Fernando sniffled as the tears set themselves free. “Anyways, I’m here for him, too.”

“Fernando, do you think you could come in and talk to Liza before you fly out? Sergio’s already told her the bits about, Cristiano. The major parts at least. Please, I just think Sergio should…” It was now Mesut’s turn to run his hand through his hair, irritated to be losing words as his erratic thinking sprung from one thing to the next.

“I understand, Mesut. I will definitely be there; you don’t have to justify your request to me. I’m the one who scratched the record to begin with…Look, I just appreciate everything you’re doing for him. I really do.” Mesut couldn’t see it but the Spaniard had a small smile of gratitude embedded on his features.

“You’re not…” Mesut tried before he was interrupted by the Spaniard.

“No, I am. I don’t expect you or anyone else to understand but I can try to make you. I can be there in fifteen.” Fernando finished hurriedly as he hung up the phone. You can do this, Nando.

Mesut let his head fall against the wall as he heard the beep come from the opposite end of the line. _What the hell am I doing?_

* * *

“Sergio? Here’s what we’re going to do: you’re going to take me through that day in as much detail as possible, okay? I need you there so you can show me here, everything that was going through your mind. What you were thinking, what you were feeling, what was being said. I need to figure out where to go from here and the more you help me, the more I can help you. Okay? So let’s begin… I assume the rape happened on the twenty-first of September? The day he killed himself?” Liza kept her voice as soft as possible, fearing that an accusatory tone would drive off the defender or worse…

The Sevillan looked down at the floor, hands resting in his lap and answered the therapist quietly. “No. It was on the seventeenth…” Sergio sniffled as he felt the weight of his sins fall back on his shoulders. “After training.”

“So, why is he going through all of this turmoil on the twenty-first?” Liza’s face scrunched at the timeline just before she looked up at the Spaniard who sat perfectly still across from her.

“Well,” Sergio sighed, bringing his hands together so he could fiddle his thumbs around one another, “there’s the day that I, you know...”

“No, Sergio. I don’t know. I know that this is a difficult thing to accept but you need to. You need to accept and acknowledge what you’ve done.” Liza knitted her eyebrows together, searching for a pair of eyes that she knew she would never find. “So let’s restart with what you were going to say, only properly this time.” _Be assertive, Liza. Don’t get carried away and be aggressive with your questioning, don’t allow him to be evasive. You can do this._

“I raped him. Cris. On the seventeenth but he never knew it was me and he would have never known it was me. I just couldn’t… So I told him it was me on the twenty -first.” Sergio clarified, his palms becoming sweaty as his admission made its way to the waiting ears of the counselor.

“Okay, Sergio. So, let’s start with the seventeenth. Tell me, how did all of this start?”

“With a voicemail I had received during training, I suppose. I had been seeing a man from the national team for the past three years or so, a married man. His wife had found out about what had been going on between us and had called me, threatening to do everything she could to ruin my life because, as she claimed, I had been the one fooling her husband into falling into bed with me. It was bullshit and I guess I just snapped.”

Liza nodded, listening intently and jotting down everything she heard. “So how did that make you feel? To be, according to you, wrongfully scapegoated as the reason for her husband’s infidelity?”

> _Interesting._

“Like shit. I felt as if I didn’t have any control of the situation. I mean, Fernando was calling all of the shots as it was but my career was the one being threatened. He was the one who had instigated the relationship between us but he instantly placed the blame on me. I felt useless and I had no control over any of it; he had shoved all of the responsibility over to me. I felt powerless and it was… bullshit.”

> _Patient needs/desires control over situations and people to feel any form of fulfillment._

“You like to have control, don’t you?” Liza studied the Sevillan as she posed her question, nodding subtly to herself. “While you were with Fernando, how often did you have control of the situation?”

“According to him, we weren’t ever anything outside of the bedroom. But when we would make arrangements to meet up and things like that, he would call all of the shots…”

“What about when you were physically together? Say, during intercourse? Who had the authority? Who was the dominant...?”

“He initiated…”

“He initiated it, you’ve said. But did you take over? I guess I'm asking who was the pitcher and who was catching?”

Sergio studied his thumbnail and decided he didn’t like his cuticles. “I suppose I did,” he whispered. “I just wasn’t comfortable bottoming for him and he was actually more of a power bottom than anything.”

“Well, you are a captain of Real Madrid so control is something you've become used to, something you may come to expect. However, the control was out of your hands in this situation… Not usual for you. How did you react?”

“I was pissed, fuming. I had been leaving when I saw Cristiano’s car still in the lot and figured we could work on our ball control. You know, take a few free kicks together…”

> _Patient becomes irritable – possibly aggressive? – when subjugated._

“Sergio, I don’t mean to interrupt you but we’re going to do something.” Liza searched Sergio’s face and decided this would be the best route to take. “Close your eyes for me...? Okay, that’s fine. Now imagine you’re here but outside on the sidewalk, still angry and fuming about that voicemail as if you had heard it for the first time all over again. You look out to the lot and you see Cristiano’s car parked there… What do you think when you look at that car?”

“That he should’ve bought a better one?” Sergio turned his palm up, eyes still closed, unsure of what Mrs. Garza was looking for.

“Okay… Keep going.”

“I don’t know. It’s always there. Every time I go to leave, it’s there. I mean, Cristiano is always the first to start and the last to quit.” Sergio tried again, though he was trying to convince his recalled self to just go home in an attempt to change his present. _Just go home, Sergio. Just go home._

“So, when you look at that car, you recognized that it will always be there when you feel like giving up? It’s reliable, dependable, and today it’s inspiring.”

> _Victim became a source of comfort and reliability for the patient. Identified victim as a consistent support system._

“I guess? I mean, it is a Lamborghini?” Damned therapists and their cryptic talk.

“I assume you then went off and found Cristiano. Before we delve into that, tell me… What was your relationship with him like?”

The Sevillan’s eyes opened as he smiled softly, remembering all of their exchanges before he had ruined ‘them’. “Before all of this? We had an ideal friendship. Hell, I’d even say that we were best friends.” Sergio sniffled as tears of shame fell out from his eyelids. “I could talk to him about anything and everything knowing that he would never judge me. And he never did – not once. He practically held my hand throughout everything with Fernando, particularly after we had one of our fallouts in Miami. He listened as I whined and gave me some advice I will never forget. He picked me up when I would get too drunk at the bar, nearly every other day. We were close – so close.”

> _Victim was a person the patient confided in and trusted completely. Victim seems to have subjugated self entirely to the needs of the patient._

“When you did find Cristiano, what happened then? He’s a person you can obviously trust and turn to… To be completely honest, I don’t feel as if you were searching for him to simply take a few free kicks. I feel as if you wanted something from him… But please, go on. When you found him?”

“He was already in the showers when I found him.”

“He was already showering off?” Liza reiterated as Sergio nodded slowly, fading into that ‘other’ state of mind. Liza noted Sergio’s state of disconnect and even that his eyes seemed to darken when confronted with his ‘less bubbly’ history with Cristiano. “What did you do, Sergio?”

“Something broke in me when I saw him… I blacked out. It’s as if I was watching myself and couldn’t do anything to stop me.”

> _The patient seems disconnected – maybe even mesmerized? – by the memory of the victim of his indiscretion. Is it the situation that has infatuated him or the person?_

“What do you mean, Sergio? You saw a gorgeous man who had always been there for you… It’s natural to have desire for him. Maybe you didn’t black out, something more of a switch to autopilot, maybe?”

“Is that why I slammed him against the wall, spraying blood from his forehead?”

> _The patient appears detached from the present and seems be emotionally and mentally attached (even fixated) to the events leading up to his victim’s death. Exhibiting signs of Borderline Personality Disorder. Possible triggers: mention of victim and former(?) lover Fernando (Spanish NT – contact info? Last name?), subjugation. Needs to be hospitalized for evaluation and treatment as other possible triggers remain unknown. May pose as threat to self and others._

“Is that why I kicked him in his stomach and in his ribs, bruising the flesh to a deep purple?” Sergio’s voice and mannerisms quickly turned from detached fixation to anger. “Is that why I slapped him across the face? Or is that why I bent him over the bench of the locker room, pulled his arms beneath it and shoved myself inside of him? I can just blame my autopilot?”

> _Patient forfeits himself as the victims reason for suicide in the mild manic stages yet is fixated by the events while experiencing psychosis. Digression from psychosis to mild mania occurs when patient feels responsibility removed. Definite post-traumatic stress disorder due to role in victim’s suicide._

“No, I think that maybe you did that simply as a way of hurting him. Possibly a way to make him hurt in a similar manner that you had always seemed to be hurting? You were tired of being the one with the problems, tired of seeing him as the pillar of support… so you took all of your anxieties and cast them onto him? Then again, it also seems as if you’re accustomed to Cristiano ‘yielding’ to you… Perhaps that’s why your ‘autopilot’ seemed to just take him? These are simply theories, though, Sergio as we can never go back to that day to see exactly what was going on up here.” Liza pointed to her mind by tapping her index finger against her temple. “What happened after you did that? While you were raping him?”

“He was pleading for me to stop. He kept screaming for me to quit, for help, that he would do anything if it would make me stop. I didn’t stop, though, not until I was completely finished. Even then, I just left him there, bleeding all over the floor.”

“When you went home…?”

“It was as if nothing had happened.”

> _Evaluate patient for possible depersonalization disorder – patient mentioned feeling ‘out of self’ – though frequency of disassociation remains unknown._

“So, the twenty-first of September?” Liza asked, pushing the conversation further. “What happened then?”

“Can Mesut come in now? I’m starting to feel extremely uncomfortable.” Sergio’s knee bounced quickly as he anxiously looked towards the door.

“Of course,” Liza replied as she stood behind her desk, making her way to the door. “Mesut?” She called, opening the door. “Sergio would like you to come back in if you’re finished with your conversation.”

“Yes ma’am,” the German returned, following her back into the room while offering Sergio a soothing smile. “Fernando should be here in a few minutes.” Mesut told Liza as he took a seat beside Sergio.

“Perfect! Now, we were just talking about…”

“What do you mean Fernando is on his way here?” Sergio’s eyes hastily found the German’s, worry and panic emitting from them.

“I mean, I texted him last night about ‘this’ and I just got off the phone with him. We need any and all of the sources of insight we can find to bring an end to ‘this’ as soon as possible, Sergio. You guys were together for years.” Mesut placed a gentle hand on the Sevillan’s knee cap. “He knows you and even thinks he may have been the one to push the first domino. It’s going to be okay, Sergio. I promise.” Mesut redirected the attention back to Liza, “You were just discussing…?”

“The twenty-first,” Liza answered, looking expectantly at Sergio who was still worried about the impending arrival of his freckled compatriot. He didn’t have to worry much longer as there was a light tap on the door.

Liza looked over at Mesut who nodded. “Come in, Fernando,” she called up towards the door, watching as the knob turned and a good-looking, dark -haired man stepped inside. Sports weren’t her thing, so as she stood to her feet and extended her hand she courteously asked, “You must be Fernando…?”

“Torres,” he replied, sticking out his hand to return the gesture. “Mesut thought it would be a good idea if we spoke before I took off to England and I couldn’t agree more.” Fernando turned and gave Sergio an apologetic smile mouthing ‘I’m sorry’ as he was met with a frown of disappointment.

“You can sit in for this, as I’m sure you understand what’s going on and then, hopefully, I can speak with you individually before you have to go?” Liza assured him as he made his way to a seat beside Sergio.

“I’m here for you, Sergio.” Fernando whispered softly.

> _Patient seems to have a solid support system._

“The twenty-first of September…?” Liza led again, hoping to finally receive an answer to her question.

“Pie day…?” Fernando asked quizzically. “What does ‘pie day’ have to do with you and Cris besides it being the day that he…?”

Sergio glanced over at Fernando and immediately broke down into tears. “We had just reconciled and I thought it was going to be just us. You told me that you had left her for me and when I found out you didn’t… I just, I couldn’t be around you but I couldn’t be alone with all of the guilt from what I had done to Cristiano either. So I went over to his house to tell him everything…” Sergio sobbed out, never breaking eye contact with Fernando once.

“You were hurt by Fernando’s actions – again, weren’t you?” Liza whispered out, luring Sergio to confide in her. She needed to find a pattern; patterns made everything easier to diagnose.

Sergio simply nodded, eyes still trained on Fernando, though they did trail to the opposing side of him to Mesut, in need of a calming smile for a brief moment.

“Are you sure you didn’t go over there just to hurt Cristiano – again?” Liza cautiously asked the question but was still surprised to see the conflicted facial expression of Sergio rather than that of anger.

> _Fernando – trigger/stabilizer – for patient. Definitely a key in mental state._

“What do you mean?” Sergio asked as his eyebrows furrowed together from thought.

“I mean, how did you tell him that it was you who raped him?” Liza studied Sergio’s face and noted the brief expression of acceptance pass before it was replaced with self-disappointment.

Both Fernando and Mesut leaned in towards the Sevillan, neither of them having heard of the events from the day Cristiano had died on any prior occasion. The only people who had talked to Cristiano that day had been Iker and Sergio and they both seemed to be holding opposing paradigms of Cristiano’s mental state derived from their final encounters. Perhaps this was why.

Sergio closed his eyes, allowing the memory to consume him. “I had told him that I was a horrible life form and he asked me exactly ‘how horrible of a life form’ I was. I remember it vividly. His voice was light but I could still hear the concern he had for me within it. He fucking cared about me. He had even held his hand on my shoulder for comfort but as I went to tell him about what I had done – to him of all people, I couldn’t even look him in the eye.”

More tears rolled down the Sevillan’s cheeks and Fernando did his best to catch them. “Sh, SeSe. It’s okay. We’re here for you.”

Mesut rubbed his thumb over Sergio’s knee nodding in agreement.

“I just, I just didn’t want him to see me for everything I had become, everything you had driven me to be.” Sergio motioned towards Fernando but chose not to dwell on it, “I know I’m responsible for my own actions but somebody made me the person I was in that locker room, in Cris’ home…” Sergio sniffled as Fernando bit his lip feeling ashamed about any and every role he had in Sergio’s anguish and demise. “Anyways, I didn’t want him to see the nothing I was. I tried to tell him by whispering in his ear but as I leaned in towards him, I caught the scent of him and… I don’t know. Something within me knew it would be the last time I’d ever be close to him. I couldn’t simply tell him what I had done but I still can’t tell you why I kissed him. It was soft and gentle, everything he was…”

> _Patient detaches from the present with any sensual recollection of the victim. Patient was intimate with victim post-rape though victim was oblivious patient was rapist at time of intimacy._

“I remember feeling his hand just over my chest gently pressing against me. I told him as we kissed by tracing his scarred wrists, his bruised thighs, pretty much everything I had damaged of his with my fingers: his cheek bones, the line of bruising left by the bench, his ribcage... He was so confused. I remember the look in his eyes as he tried to figure it all out. Then it faded, to nothingness… I think I watched him die right in front of me. I even had the nerve to tell him that I was sorry. Want to know the really fucked up part of it…?” The question was rhetorical but the room nodded, encouraging Sergio to continue. “He loved me. Beyond his statements in his suicide note…”

Fernando curiously tilted his head to the side as Mesut bit his lip.

> _Patient discovered that the victim held strong feelings (loved) for him postmortem._

“I went over to Iker’s last night. Cristiano had kept a journal, you know? Iker found it. He talked about me in it – a lot – about how he wanted whatever would make me happy, even if meant getting Perez to sign Fernando as a part of his new contract.” Sergio choked on his sobs, feeling the crushing weight of his actions, “He even confessed to telling Olalla about what had been going on between Fernando and me because he felt as if I was being emotionally abused… but what’s even worse was that he had just fallen in love with Iker and then I… I took him. I took Cristiano from Iker the day I told him that I had raped him.”

“Is that how you came to in possession of these?” Liza asked, holding the pages of Cristiano’s journal upwards to remind the sobbing Sevillan she had them. _Iker? I need to speak with him. Later in the afternoon perhaps?_

Sergio nodded explaining that when Iker had gone to the restroom to wash his face he had pulled them from the book. “I never gave Iker the chance to ever read those pages. He was so messed up as it was…”

Liza looked over her notes summarizing them within her mind. Definite Posttraumatic Stress Disorder… Needs to be evaluated further for Depersonalization Disorder / Bipolar Disorder ; (Passive) Aggressive when subjugated – may be a trigger as Cristiano / Fernando may be triggers for the mania’s or onsets of either disorder. Patient must be hospitalized for fear of harm or self. “Here’s what where going to do, Sergio,” Liza started when she felt as if the room had been silent for long enough. “We’re going to do something called involuntary commitment.”

The three footballers gasped on the other side of the room, already whispering of their discontent.

“Are-Are you sure that’s necessary?” Mesut sputtered out.

“I’m picking up signs of serious disorders, Mesut. I’m willing to wait until after the game this weekend as I am doing the same for another member of the team. But, Sergio, you will be admitted into the program and we can discuss my prognosis then and work on getting you well again.”

“So no police then?” Fernando asked because somebody had to. They were all thinking it, they were just too afraid to voice it.

“My hands are bound by the non-disclosure agreement we signed when I first became the club crisis counselor. It’s usually up to the victim or a witness to report it as it’s something that’s difficult to prove… To be honest, based off of Cristiano’s journal entry he never wanted what had happened to expand beyond the two of you,” Liza responded quietly motioning towards Sergio. “We’re going to respect his wished to an extent but you are going to be admitted to the Behavioral Health Institute just outside of the city. As I said, you won’t be the only member from the team there, though I am not at liberty to disclose exactly who else will be there. It will be intense but it will be worth it.” Liza stood up from behind her desk and walked over to Sergio, squeezing his shoulder. “You’re going to get better, soon.”

Mesut leapt up off of the sofa and held open the door, allowing Sergio to pass through in front of him. Before he could follow, he felt a small tug on his arm.

“I know you don’t think so right now, but you’re doing the right thing, Mesut.” Liza whispered,

offering the German a reassuring smile before redirecting her attention to Fernando.

_ “I hope you’re right,” Mesut breathe out inaudibly as the door closed behind him. _

 

 


	29. ...he's waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“No matter. What matters is now. You can choose to come with me, to see Cristiano again, or you can stay put here and live your life fully as Cristiano wishes for you. The choice is yours, just tell me what you decide.” The old man rose to his feet, extending his hand for Iker to take or decline._

_One little touch had sent them all toppling and tumbling down,_  
 _One selfish action from him changed this one’s smile to a frown,_  
 _This one’s frown gradually turned his once lively heart to pitch black,_  
 _One blackened heart, took what was another’s and never looked back._  
 _This one, having lost himself to the one with the blackened heart,_  
 _Feeling utterly helpless, alone, his bright future instantly turning dark._  
 _Another one still, invested himself amongst this terribly lost soul_  
 _He held him close, held him tight - trying keep him here on earth was his only goal._  
 _But at the taste of failure, as he watched as the lost soul departed,_  
 _Questioned his purpose, why such affliction upon him had been imparted._  
 _Like dominos, the one pushed another and gradually brought them all down_  
 _Three suffer for the immodesty of one, for his survival three have quickly drown._

* * *

 

The Spaniard tightly closed his eyes and hastily covered his sternum as the pressure on his chest let up, desperate to hold him one last time. The keeper softly smiled as the warmth coursed through him by way of his palm, informing him that this was real and this had happened… A soft chuckle abruptly overcame the silence of the room, freezing Iker’s steady heartbeat and sending his eyelids fluttering. Who the…?

“Wanting something isn’t enough.” The voice was deep and unnerving, unfamiliar and pierced right through to the keeper’s weakened spirit.

Iker frantically glanced around the room, searching every nook and cranny with his eyes before bewilderedly asking the voice, “Where are you?” His eyes scoured his room again, yielding no results of anything unusual for a second time.

Another light titter of laughter bounced off of the walls but was echoed with the words, “Who are you looking for?”

Furrowing his brow and wrinkling his head, Iker turned sliding his legs off of the side of the bed. His body was still heavy and his head was still throbbing. “Sergio?” He groaned out, dismissing the voice before he had a panic attack. “I didn’t realize you were still…”

“You’re looking for Sergio?” The voice eerily questioned him. “No, I think you’re looking for something more.”

Iker’s eyes went wide as a dark figure seemed to materialize in the doorway. “Who are you?”

As the man stepped forward, Iker noticed he was a small man who just so happened to be carrying a big voice. His beard was a light gray and grew only to the length of his collar bone though it reached up and encompassed the area just over the top of his lip. The thin lips of the old man were pressed tightly together forming either a smile of understanding or one of pity. He seemed to wear the wrinkles that had formed around his eyes with pride, each one seeming to stem from a wisdom within his irises... The man seemed to have been around for a while. His hands were shaky drawing a sharp contrast with firmness of his voice. The elder man rambled over to Iker’s nightstand, picking up the empty green bottle of Lithium with one hand and the empty bottle of Amitriptyline…

“I see we’re depressed.” The older man mumbled out, “Well isn’t that a shame?” He glanced over at Iker’s immobilized form, choosing to take a seat directly beside the bemused man. The little old man leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and shook his head.

“Who are…?”

“I think you better focus on figuring out who the hell you are before you go around trying to figure out who the hell other people are.” The man spoke frankly, though he softened the nature of his words with a warm smile. He had shifted all of his upper body weight to one elbow as he looked up to face Iker.

“Ho-how did you get in?” Iker slowly started scooting away from the older man, in retrospect he wasn’t sure as to why he had… The man was far from scary and even if he was fearsome, like he had been afraid of death anyway? He had just tried to enter the realms of the dead only hours ago.

“You let me in.” The old man smiled, patting Iker on the shoulder.

There was something familiar about his touch, something about the light ghostly pressure that sent chills of remembrance flowing throughout his body. The man smelled of the ocean, smelled of the seaweed and salty air…

“I di- I did?” Iker managed to choke out, looking towards the hallway, swearing that he hadn’t left the bed since Sergio had been over. Then again, he hadn’t remember swallowing a bottle of Lithium and, apparently, a bottle of Amitriptyline either… What’s one more thing he had done that he can longer recall? “Huh…”

“I don’t understand why you’re still so depressed, son. You should be celebrating your life, you’re still so young and have a long path ahead of you… We all have shit we go through, at least if we’re going anywhere worth being.”

Iker stopped breathing for a moment and looked curiously over at the older man. “Cris used to say that.” He whispered, searching the older man’s eyes for some sort of acknowledgment. The twinkle in his eyes sent Iker’s heart fluttering and his mind racing. “You knew Cristiano?”

“Ah, yes,” the older man informed him, grinning down into his hands. “I know him quite well.”

It was Iker’s turn to give the man a sympathetic smile before informing him that Cristiano had passed.

The old man just smiled and laughed, placing an ethereal hand on the keeper’s thigh while looking deep into the eyes of the Spaniard. “What are you talking about? I’m looking right at him.”

Iker felt the tears form in his eyes as anger built up inside of him. _Fuck Cristiano and fuck this old man._ Cristiano wasn’t here but he was damned sure that he was going to stop at nothing until he was with Cristiano again.

“Wanting something isn’t enough.” The old man reiterated. “You want to be there with him but it’s not enough.”

“Why do you think those are empty?” Iker asked motioning towards the empty prescription bottles. “Obviously I more than wanted it. I don’t expect you to understand…”

“Oh but I do understand, Iker. I’ve seen you two together and I can tell you with the utmost conviction that the two of you were made for one another. I can accept why you feel as if you died with him in that locker room…”

Iker gave the man yet another bewildered look. _Sure you do old man._

As if reading Iker’s mind the old man smiled, “The night you two were together, I remember feeling the ground shake and hearing the heavens rejoice, joyous to witness a soul being saved by the mere strength of an imperfect spirit… he means so much to you, so much that where he ends and you begin blurs.”

_This must be one of those psychotic stalkers I had heard of. I wonder if this is his way of warning me that he squealed to the media. Ass._

The man groaned as he looked at the keeper, finding him distracted by his thoughts. “I can take you to him…”

_A murderous stalker._

“He won’t be happy about it, not by any means.”

“What makes you so sure? He seemed pretty damned happy last night.” Iker snapped back, growing tired of listening to this crazy, old kook. “Besides he told me that he was waiting for me…”

“When it comes to be your time, he will be there – waiting. I can assure you he wasn’t pleased to see you there so soon. Why do you think he sent you back? Why do you think he let you know the truth, that it was he who had let go of you…?”

Iker raised an eyebrow towards his 'stalker', trying to figure out how the hell he knew all of that. Perhaps he spoke in his sleep and this creepy motherfucker heard him?

“No matter. What matters is now. You can choose to come with me, to see Cristiano again, or you can stay put here and live your life fully as Cristiano wishes for you. The choice is yours, just tell me what you decide.” The old man rose to his feet, extending his hand for Iker to take or decline.

Iker tightly closed his eyes, feeling a warmth stretch across his chest settling just above his slowly thumping heart. He reached out his hand, eyes still closed…he suddenly felt his hand being forced away, the decision being made for him, and his body collapsing beneath the unfamiliar weight of another . A loud thud came from the floor and, as he opened his eyes, he could see that the old man had already vanished.

* * *

 

“Okay, Fernando. Tell me what’s going on. Sergio says that you’re married…?” Liza approached the striker and took a seat directly beside him. “That she knows what’s going on between the two of you? How are things going?”

“Well, I guess.” Fernando fidgeted, uncomfortable with the direct attention he was being given. “Olalla told me that Cristiano’s death raised her ‘awareness of emotional happiness’ and doesn’t want to force me into doing anything I don’t want. I mean, she had filed for divorce but withdrew the petition as she didn’t want to force me to ‘fallback’ on Sergio or leave what I had with Sergio as a mere last-ditch effort to save our marriage without thinking anything through. So, things are going well.”

“I’m glad to hear she’s being supportive. But I have to ask you, what made Olalla feel as if the relationship between yourself and Sergio was initiated as an act of ‘trickery’? Derived off of Sergio’s words, Olalla accused him of hoodwinking you into bed with him. Why was that?”

Fernando looked down at his hands, head made heavy by the weight of his shame. “I panicked and told her that Sergio had been going through a rough time and needed somebody to confide in. That he had pressured me into sleeping with him…”

“For three years?” Liza looked up from her notes in disbelief. “You told her that Sergio had tricked you for three years and she actually believed it?”

“Well, she didn’t know how long it had been going on for at that time. She just wanted to know why. She found out though, which is why she filed for divorce later on that same day.” Fernando answered matter-of-factly, looking up at the ceiling as he did.

“Did you know that she would confront Sergio?” Fernando shook his head. “Were you aware of what had happened after Sergio received that voicemail?”

“Not until yesterday,” Fernando whispered. “I had no idea. If I had…” Fernando sniffled, wiping away the tears that had started to roll down his cheek.

Liza studied the Spaniard, noting his peculiar behavior – he seemed incapable of making eye contact. Perhaps he’s just nervous. “Did he just outright tell you, look this is what I’ve done or…?”

“No, he showed me. He showed me what he did.” Fernando’s voice was distant, his eyes searching the room for something unknown even to him. “He brought me here, to the locker room.”

Liza softened her voice and lowered her gaze. “You mean to tell me he raped you, Fernando? He brought you here, yesterday, and raped you?”

Fernando nodded, eyes still roaming about. “It doesn’t bother me. I know it’s fucked up but…it doesn’t. Maybe because I feel responsible, know that I’m responsible, for helping create the person he is today… ”

“...but he alone is accountable for his own actions.” Liza interjected stonily, jotting down everything that was said.

“If you’re constantly condemning a dog for barking, constantly punishing him for doing just that… when a robber breaks in and he doesn’t alert the family, just sits there and doesn’t make a sound… is it his fault? He could only draw from what he knew from his past experiences…”

“Fernando, we’re not dogs…” Liza responded, seeing the logic but trying to pull Fernando out of it nonetheless.

“No but in the end we are merely animals. We reflect what we know…”

“What are you implying? Sergio was reflecting what exactly?” Fernando was so ingrained in his belief, his belief that humanity is but a product of its experiences, that Liza quickly gave up, deciding it’d be easier to convert an atheist to a nun.

“Me.” Fernando answered nonchalantly, catching Liza’s eyes for the first time since Sergio and Mesut had left the room.

“Oh, is that so?” Liza’s eyes rounded as she wrote down all of her observations of the man. “And what, exactly, are you?”

“Power hungry.” Fernando answered her indifferently, embracing himself and his fault. “Sure, he’s dominant in the bedroom but only because I allow him to be. I am emotionally dominant, mentally dominant… I wouldn’t be satisfied any other way. I have to go now...” The Spaniard stood up to leave, composing himself just before turning towards the door.

“Fernando, are you going to be able to come and visit Sergio after he’s admitted? I’d love to talk more with you.” Liza voiced as she scribbled the last of her notes.

“Why not?” And with that Fernando had departed, leaving Liza alone with her thoughts and notes.

Shortly after Fernando had gone, as she was filling out the admissions work for her three athletes turned inpatient, there was a light knock on the door. Carlo quickly poked his head into her office, asking if she had a moment.

“Why yes, Mr. Ancelotti. How can I help you?”

“It’s Iker. He hasn’t showed up for training yet and I haven’t even received a phone call. I was hoping you could swing by and talk to him. Sergio has informed me that he wasn’t doing too great last night and I’m definitely concerned about his mental state.”

“Sure thing, I had intended on speaking with him today anyways,” Liza replied, smiling up at the Italian. She grabbed her keys off her desk and stood up, choosing not to waste any time. “Anyone available to escort me, just in case…?”

William Vecchi gave her a small wave from behind the manager.

“Who better than his ‘life’ coach, huh?” Liza laughed as she headed out the door.

* * *

 

“What a lovely home,” Liza voiced as she pulled her car into the driveway of Iker’s home. “So picturesque, huh?”

William simply nodded as he stepped out of the car. He wasn’t a man of many words but this woman… this woman could talk.

“I didn’t even know they had homes like this in Spain.” Liza mused as she lightly knocked on the door. “I don’t hear anything, do you?”

William simply shook his head as he strained his ears, trying to hear any sign of life coming from the home.

“Maybe he’s at that newer…” Liza reached out as she spoke and grabbed the doorknob. “Hmm, the door’s not secure?” Liza whispered as she pushed open the door, stepping into the home of the Spanish saint. “It’s really quiet in here. Too quiet. Do you think he’s still in bed?” She glanced around, quietly appreciating the aesthetic, warm atmosphere created by the home’s interior design.

William shrugged and supposed that the keeper was probably still snoozing, turning to Liza for direction.

“Okay, William. You want to go wake him up, just in case he isn’t decent? I’ll wait out here.”

William nodded and swiftly made his way down the hallway, glancing into all of the rooms as he was uncertain of where he was going. He swiftly brought his stride to a halt as he caught sight of the goalie sitting on the edge of a bed, surrounded by empty prescription bottles, eyes clamped shut, a gun pointed to his head…

The goalie’s finger seemed to be moving towards the trigger but William wasn’t about to stand there and watch it successfully make its way to its destination. He swiftly yet quietly made his way over to the keeper, he listened as Iker muttered something along the lines of ‘he’s waiting’, just before he forcefully slapped the gun out of Iker's hand and to the floor.

“The old man! Where’s the old man?” Iker fervently shouted, flailing within William’s grasp. “Did Cristiano send you? Where is he? I need to tell him something. Where's the old man? I need him to give a message to Cristiano for me! Please, just tell me where he went!”

Liza ran down the hallway, already dialing 112. “Yes, I’d like to report an…” she stopped as she caught sight of the gun on the floor amongst the empty Lithium and Amitriptyline bottles, “...attempted suicide. At the home of Iker Casillas.”

"What?! No! I was just going to tell him something I swear! The old man! He was right here! I swear it! Where is he?”

“What is the current state of the victim?”

“He’s been apprehended and is no longer posing an immediate threat, however, he seems to have ingested a disconcerting amount of anti-depressants. He appears to be having a bout with seemingly schizophrenic hallucinations, as well. We’re not sure how long he’s been like this, we came to do a welfare check as club officials were concerned with his mental state.”

“Medics have been sent to your current position. Please stay on the line.”

Liza could already hear that sounds of the sirens approaching but they were quickly drown out by Iker’s pleas for understanding. “You have to believe me, he was right here! I was talking to him, please!”


	30. Epilogue: See (C) Our (R) Seven (7)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For today, this was okay. For today, everything was okay.

They knew as soon as they stepped on the pitch that they would be surrounded by a white wall everywhere they looked, all blurring together to become one in the moment, his moment. White noise emerged from the vast ocean of supporters as their rivals took to the pitch beckoning for them to do the same… _For today, they wore his seven._

Iker turned and smiled over at Liza, thankful she had given him the opportunity to play today, to play for Cristiano. He looked back at his teammates, their teammates and gave them all an appreciative smile, thanking them for understanding. He gave Kaka the most sincere of smiles, thankful that they’d be playing together. _For today I know who I am. For today I know who is behind me. For today, I am stronger because of him._

Kaka looked over his shoulder, staring at the cross that still hung from Sergio’s neck. He reached back and grabbed at it, kissing it just before facing forward. _For today He is watching. For today Cristiano is looking down on us, smiling. For today He is dawning the colors of Real because he is Real._

Sergio watched as Kaka returned his crucifix and gave him a small smile. He looked around at his fellow teammates, knowing that a seven wasn’t there because of him. _For today, Cristiano is here. For today, I am here for him. For today, I will accept his forgiveness. Even if it is only for one day._

They surged forward, charging out of the tunnel…

The crowd flew into a frenzy at the display and the opposing team could merely applaud in admiration. The referees threw down their books and nodded their heads conceding to the gesture. _For today, this was okay. For today, everything was okay._

A sea of sevens filled the pitch, each one with a single name transcribed above the legendary number. Jerseys dating all the way back to the days of Puskas and Di Stefano to the more recent times of Raul and Zidane – all inscribed with the name of their late legend, Cristiano. _For today, they were one. For today, they were unstoppable. For today, the message was clear:_

**_ We are Madrid. See our seven. _ **

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Break Me: ASL](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1845781) by [facade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/facade/pseuds/facade)
  * [Broken Parts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2708276) by [facade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/facade/pseuds/facade)




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